Corruption and Innocence
by turd
Summary: AU. John gets arrested and his kids are separated. Sam grows up with a loving family, but Dean is left homeless and alone. Years later, Sam goes after the demon who attacked Jess. He's aided on his mission by a mysterious stranger, a cold-blooded murderer who happens to be wearing Dean's amulet and calls him 'Sammy'. No Slash.
1. The Family

**Wassup Supernatural fanbase? I'm new around here so don't be a jerk :) Tell you the truth, I'm kinda nervous posting in the Supernatural section cuz everyone's like a pro writer here.**

**Oh, and I might as well tell you now: no slash whatsoever, especially wincest! Sorry fans, I just find bromance more satisfying than romance.  
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**As for language and gore - if you can watch Supernatural, you can read this fic.**

**EDIT 04/01/2012: The first three chapters have all been edited. This first one has been very heavily edited, the second one not as much, and the third one just a bit. I recommend reading them ****again**** if you read this story before Jan. 4, 2012**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Family<strong>

_**"We're stronger as a family, Dad, we just are, you know it."**_

–_**Dean, 'Dead Man's Blood'**_

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><p><em>Trillium Hospital, Room 215<em>

_Broken Bow, Nebraska_

_December 27, 1991_

It was the worst Christmas the Winchesters had ever had, which was certainly saying something.

Seriously, about a hundred times worse than that year when Sam had gotten one present: a lumpy swan made out of tin foil. That had been from his then nine-year-old brother Dean. Their father had actually slept through the entire day, exhausted from his 'business trip'.

This year, their dad had missed Christmas altogether, and Dean had had to steal someone else's Christmas presents so that Sam would have something to open, even if the presents had turned out to be a little too girly for him. Sam had also found out that monsters were real, and shortly after this horrifying discovery, the hospital had phoned to tell them their dad was in critical condition after being attacked by a wolf. Furthermore, as if Lady Luck herself had decided to throw her hands in the air and just give up on the Winchesters, the police had arrested John, and it was likely that their father would be put on death row as soon as he recovered.

The hospital was quiet at this time of night, which was the only reason why anyone in the room was able to hear John's hoarse whisper.

"No, please," John Winchester croaked out. From the number of extensive wounds he was suffering from, it was a miracle the man was even able to remain conscious. But he didn't even seem to mind the damage, because at the moment there was a more important matter at hand: they were taking his kids from him. "No, you can't have them. Don't take them."

His twelve-year-old son Dean was making the same protests, albeit with more energy.

"You _stupid_ assholes, you're arresting the wrong guy!" he yelled at the officers angrily. The two policemen exchanged glances but didn't say anything. "He doesn't kill people, my dad saves lives!"

Behind him, his eight-year-old brother Sam was complaining considerably less. He was silent but attentive, his eyes moving from his dad to his brother to the officers.

A woman entered the room dressed in a long skirt and blouse. She had a round, kindly face and flashed an encouraging smile at the children—which was not returned—before speaking to the police officers.

"Hello, I'm Minerva from the Child Protection Services. I've come to take Sam and Dean Winchester—"

"Leave us alone," Dean growled at her, stepping between her and Sam as if he were trying to shield him from her deadly wrath. "We already have a dad."

"Don't take them away," John pleaded from his bed. His face was practically covered with gauze but the CPS worker could still see those helpless eyes. For a short, fleeting moment Minerva wondered if the police officers truly had the right man. "They're all I have left."

This only fuelled the fury within Dean. His father didn't beg. His father was the strongest, scariest person he'd ever known. He could take down werewolves and wraiths and angry spirits no problem. He was his real life John McClane. And now he was pleading with a CPS worker, of all things?

"You stay away from our family," Dean warned her stonily. "My dad's a hero."

The woman adopted a sympathetic look on her face. "I'm sorry, honey. I know this must be hard for you. But we're going to find you a new home, okay? I don't want to be the one to tell you that your father's been doing some bad things, but—"

"Stop talking to me like I'm a kid," Dean interrupted, momentarily ignoring the fact that he was indeed a kid. "My dad just risked his life to save people and now you're sending him to prison? You're all idiots!"

Dean wanted to escape from the room, run away from the scary adults that were going to break apart their already minuscule family. He _could _run. Dean had mapped out several escape routes out of the hospital already and he knew he could slip out and hop on a bus easily. The officers had to stay, after all, to watch over his alleged serial killer of a father, and would hesitate at least for several seconds before pursuing him. Even if they did chase him, they were weighed down by the equipment on their belts and stomachs that had seen one donut too many in their lifetime. The woman was in high heels and a dress. None of them had a chance of keeping up. He could even bring Sam along with him and still outrun them all.

Dean considered it, actually considered it, for five whole seconds before he saw Sam out of the corner of his eye. On the outside, his little brother looked calm. He looked as if he couldn't care less that his father was probably going to be in jail for life if they didn't put him on death row, that he and Dean would have no parents left by the end of the day, that there was a chance that he might be separated from his brother.

To the woman from the Child Protection Services, to the two police officers and most likely even to John, it looked like Sam Winchester either didn't give a damn about anything that was happening or was just too stupid to understand it. His older brother knew better though, because Dean knew Sam better than Dean knew himself.

Sam was terrified out of his wits and under any other circumstances would be bawling his eyes out and attempting to demolish everything in the room. But Dean was at his breaking point already, so Sam knew to be the one with the level head.

Dean understood all this with the tiniest glance at Sam's passive face and he just couldn't bring himself to put his plan in action. Sam had already lost so much in a single day. It was hardly fair that he should deprive his little brother of a roof to live under, on top of everything else. He wouldn't run. Not yet.

"We will restrain you if necessary, Dean," Minerva said with a disapproving frown, not knowing of the decision he'd just made mentally.

"Can we at least say goodbye?" Sam said quietly as he peeked out from behind Dean. It was the first thing he'd said in hours.

The lady's face softened immediately upon seeing his pleading eyes. "Of course, sweetie. Go ahead."

Dean and Sam walked over to John's bed.

"Sorry, boys," John smiled, trying to rein in his emotions. This could be the last time he'd see his boys in a very long time, and they didn't need their last memory of him to be a blubbering mess. "I swear to god, I will come back for you."

Dean was crying now. The kid almost never cried. Not when John scolded him, not when he'd broken his leg, not even when his mom had died.

"It's—it's not fair, Dad," Dean said, his voice cracking. "It's—it's..."

"I know, kiddo," John told him. "But you gotta stay strong, alright? You have to look after your brother."

Dean sniffled one last time, but nodded. He then turned his head quickly to see if the other occupants of the room were listening before speaking. "Dad, Sammy knows... He found your journal." Dean's head was bowed in shame, like he'd just confessed to peeing in the bed.

John couldn't help it, he groaned. Great. Now was _not_ the time for this conversation. If it had been any other day, he would have gotten angry at his kids. Yelled at Dean for telling his brother the truth, yelled at Sam for going through his things without permission... But this wasn't the time for that.

Sam nodded in confirmation. He too glanced quickly towards the woman and police officers, mimicking his older brother. "Dean told me the truth about your job and stuff." His voice was shaking but he quickly cleared it. "Can't we just tell them the truth? You're innocent, Dad."

"That's not such a great idea," John told him seriously. "I'm not sure anyone will believe that the people I killed were actually werewolves."

Upon seeing his little brother's crestfallen expression, Dean quickly rushed in to reassure him. "But don't worry, Sammy. The judge can tell if you're guilty or not. They'll hook him up to one of those lie detectors and ask if he killed any humans. Dad will say no, and they'll see he's telling the truth. There's nothing to worry about."

"Really?"

"Dude, when have I ever been wrong? Big brothers are always right. I was right about the Terminator sequel, wasn't I? It _was _amazing," Dean reminded him while grabbing his shoulder.

"Kids, you're going to have to wrap it up," Minerva said pleasantly from the other side of the room. Dean actually snarled at her, like a wild dog, and she subconsciously found herself backing up.

"Dean," John said suddenly, "I don't want you to contact _any_ hunters whatsoever."

Dean whipped around back to his dad and frowned. "What? Why? Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim could adopt me and Sammy at the foster home or something. Until you get back, I mean."

"Someone betrayed me, Dean," John told him. "They told the police what motel I'd be staying at and which alias I'd probably be using. I only gave those details to Bobby, Jim, Jonathan, and Caleb. It could have been one of them that called the cops, or maybe they just told some other hunter with a bone to pick, but I don't want you to go looking for them at all. You see any hunter, you take your brother and run."

Dean nodded solemnly, trying to hide his disappointment. "So what, you just want us to sit in a foster home for the rest of our lives?"

"Didn't you just tell Sammy I'm not going to jail?" John shot back. "I thought big brothers were always right." Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, aware of Sam standing right beside him. John continued, "So just wait for me. I will come back for you boys. I swear on my life."

00000

_Eleven months later_

"Good night, Sam," Eleanor said, kissing his forehead lightly and leaving the room.

Sam lay still for a few seconds in his bed, listening as his foster mother's footsteps travelled down the stairs. As soon as he was sure she was out of hearing range, he threw off his covers, leapt out of bed and unlocked the glass doors in his room that led to the balcony.

"Dean?" he hissed excitedly. He felt kind of stupid when the only response was the chirping of a cricket, but he tried again anyway. "Deeeean?"

"Right here, baby brother." Dean's head popped out, from behind the large potted tree on Sam's balcony, and his body soon followed. Dean leaned against the railing, looking his brother up and down. "How you been?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly, but he had a huge smile on his face. "Same as usual. I won the regional spelling bee a couple days ago."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal." The smug expression on Sam's face seemed to be saying quite the contrary. "How about you?"

The two brothers had been separated after only a week at the foster home. The chances that either of them would be adopted at all were extremely low since most adults came looking for younger kids, preferably kids that didn't have a known psychopath as a father.

Dean was feeling confident he and Sam would get to stick together at the foster home. And then, just because he and his brother were Winchesters and their family seemed to have some sort of worst-case-scenario-curse, Sam had just happened to accidentally bump into the lady dropping off a box of donated toys to the home. And of course, Sam just happened to bear some resemblance to her ten-year-old son that had passed away that year. Even after Sam insisted that his father was the insane murderer John Winchester, it didn't scare her away from signing the papers for adoption.

Of course, adopting Dean too was not an option. The child was too old, and had been influenced already by their insane father. The result was not pleasant.

Sam's initial protests and tantrums were incessant after his adoption. He'd only eventually settled down when Dean had escaped from the foster home and visited him once every night. Soon though, Dean had had to prowl the neighbourhood for a place to stay and could only visit once every couple weeks. It became routine for the first few months.

Eventually the visits had had to become monthly. Dean had met an elderly woman named Agnes who lived with her equally ancient husband Oliver. They gave Dean a place to stay and food to eat in exchange for him doing all the chores around the house. They were perfect. They didn't ask Dean any questions, didn't try to be his parents. The only downside was that their house was a full two hour bus ride away from Sam's house, leading to Dean making his visits further and further apart.

"I'm good. Agnes is really getting on my back to start school again, but..." Dean trailed off uncomfortably.

"Why not? I think that's a good idea," Sam said. "You're only going to get more far behind."

"I was never a great student, and now I've missed an entire grade," Dean replied, a little too quickly, as if his answer had been prepared or used beforehand. "Besides, school doesn't teach the things that are important."

Sam didn't exactly agree with that, but upon seeing the glum look in Dean's eyes he decided not to push it. "By the way, how are Agnes and Oliver doing?"

"They've been great," Dean answered, leaning against the railing on the balcony. It was a much easier subject to talk about. "I fixed the antennae on the TV the other day so now we get the sports channel too, instead of just the food network and infomercials."

"What about cartoons?" Sam frowned, completely concerned. "You should fix the antennae some more, Dean. There was this episode on TV yesterday and I don't really know what show it was, but there was this big guy and a little guy and..."

Dean sat on the cold floor and patiently listened to everything his little brother had to say. Without Dean having to contribute a word to the conversation, Sam went from describing the cartoon he had watched to what his classmate Jessie Moore told him boys were made of. From there, Sam just began to ramble on about random details and branches of unrelated topics that would be impossible to follow if one were not his older brother.

Finally, after about a half hour of this, Sam wore himself out. The yawns came without warning, and despite his efforts to hide them they betrayed his fatigue all the same.

Dean grinned and took the opportunity of a break in Sam's talking to ask his usual question. It was one he asked Sam without fail every time he visited. "But how about your parents? They treating you okay?" He tried to sound casual about it, but Dean's eyes were slightly narrowed. He didn't like Sam's new parents. After all, they'd been the one that had separated the brothers.

"Yeah, they're great," Sam told him. After he'd settled down a bit, Sam learned that Eleanor and Colin really were a kid's ideal parents. They listened to him and treated him just as fairly as their own daughter, Elizabeth, who was a year younger than Sam. "The other day they got me a puppy. I'll show him to you next time you come over."

Dean's smile had suddenly become a lot tighter. "Yeah. Sure thing, Sammy. Listen, I have to go... The last bus downtown leaves in ten minutes."

Sam tried not to look disappointed. "Oh... okay. Maybe next time you can stay longer?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, man," Dean replied absently. He didn't look his brother in the eyes. "Take care of yourself, okay?" Sam nodded. Dean patted his shoulder. "See you later, Sammy."

With that, Dean climbed back down the balcony. His father had told him to protect his younger brother, but his visiting Sammy once in a while wasn't doing anything for him. If anything, he was preventing his brother from moving on to a normal life.

However, it was the only alternative. Otherwise, Dean had to either convince Eleanor and Colin to adopt him too, which definitely was not going to happen, or totally cut himself off from Sam's life. The latter hurt to think about, and while it was probably the best thing for Sam in the long run, Dean was too weak to actually go through with it.

"Maybe later," Dean sighed to himself as he made his way across the perfectly manicured lawn. "When I'm less selfish."

Time passed quickly for Sam. His classmate Jessica Moore moved in next door to their house and he had a constant playmate after school. School itself was just as fun. Sam wasn't the 'new kid' anymore and he loved it. Everything came easily to him and the other kids were constantly asking him for help. In this way, he became the most popular kid in class.

Moreover, Sam had weekly movie and game nights with the family, tae kwon do lessons, private tutoring sessions, music lessons, and a huge selection of video games. There was never a boring moment in his life.

Nevertheless, Sam hadn't forgotten about his previous family. Despite Sam staying up all night, Dean didn't show up at his door after a month had passed. Another month came and went, and Dean was still nowhere to be found.

And then, one night, two weeks after Dean's second absence, a frantic rapping at Sam's balcony door startled him out of sleep. Sam immediately jumped out of bed, unsure of what to do. His brother had never done this before. He thought of his dad's journal that he had read that night. Could it be a werewolf outside? Or a zombie?

The rapping was more insistent this time and Sam couldn't help but take a peek outside the curtains.

He was relieved to see Dean's eyes staring at him in the dark. Sam unlocked the doors and stepped outside. "Dean, where have you been...?" Sam stopped. His brother was sweaty and was leaning against the railing for support. He was panting like he'd been running a marathon and his eyes were wide and severely bloodshot. He couldn't seem to be able to tear his eyes from the trees in Sam's backyard, as if somebody was watching them from there.

Dean finally looked up at Sam. His face looked too old. It had only been two months, but his brother looked like he'd aged years. "Came to say goodbye, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. "Wait, what? What happened, Dean? Where are you going? What-?"

"It killed them, Sammy," Dean said through gritted teeth. "It was a demon. It killed Agnes and Oliver."

Sam gasped. "Are you... are you okay?" Sam asked him, approaching the older brother cautiously. "Is it still out there?" He too began scanning his backyard cautiously.

Dean laughed darkly, a sound Sam had never heard before from his brother. It sent chills down his spine.

"I hunted it down yesterday. I just found him and his little gang... and I ripped that son of a bitch's body apart," Dean said hollowly. "But it was my entire fault. I led it to them. They'd still be alive if it weren't for me."

This was so absurd. Sam had no idea what to do. He decided to pretend that their positions were swapped. If Sam was crying, what would Dean do?

Sam gripped his brother's shoulders. He could feel Dean's body shaking under his hands. "Dean, it wasn't your fault. Listen to me, it wasn't your fault." Dean didn't seem to hear him.

"And you want to know the best part, Sammy?" Dean was grinning now, which did nothing to dispel the slightly manic glint in his eyes. "I didn't even kill it. Apparently demons don't die. It's freaking impossible to kill them! All I did was kill the innocent dude that the demon was possessing. So now they're all pretty pissed off at me and would like very much to tear me to shreds."

"Dean, you're scaring me," Sam whimpered. He'd never thought he could ever be afraid of his older brother, but he was. This angry boy with the distant eyes was a stranger to him.

Luckily, this statement seemed to calm Dean down a little. The frightening smile vanished and was replaced by an expression of sadness. "Listen, Sammy, I'll try to come back in a few years, once I'm sure that the demons aren't on my back anymore."

Sam began to protest, "Dean."

"No, listen to me. Forget about me. Forget about Dad, and stick with your new family," Dean said sternly. He then handed Sam Dad's journal. That dreaded journal that Sam had read that fateful night. "Take this, and use everything in it to protect yourself. But don't go looking for the things in here. Live a normal life, and if you think you hear of _anything_ supernatural, you go running in the other direction."

Sam's eyes were brimming with tears. This couldn't be happening. Not again. "No, Dean. I can't—you can't leave me." He suddenly wrapped his arms around Dean's neck. If he didn't let go, Dean wouldn't be able to leave. "Don't leave me."

"You're making this really hard, Sammy," Dean said, his voice cracking. "Dad told me to protect you, and that's what I'm doing."

Suddenly Dean pulled his brother even closer to him and locked him in a tight embrace. They stood on that balcony together for a long time. Sam sobbed all over his brother's shoulder until he couldn't find a spot dry enough to wipe his tears, but Dean didn't seem to mind. He rubbed his younger brother's back comfortingly.

Eventually the two of them had to separate. Dean took a final look at his brother and descended the balcony for the last time. Sam watched his slowly shrinking figure walking away until it turned a corner, and even then Sam continued to stare, as if the figure might just reappear and run back to him.

His parents and younger sister didn't know what was wrong with him, but Sam refused to come out of his room for a whole week afterwards.

00000

_St. James Asylum, Basement_

_Queens, New York_

_September 9, 2005_

"So, do you want to tell me who has the gun, Al?" the interrogator snarled at him.

"I d-don't know," Al repeated yet again. The blood leaking out of his mouth made it difficult to speak clearly.

Al wasn't quite sure what had happened. One minute Al had been carrying the garbage can indoors before the raccoons could get to it, and the next he was waking up with his hands tied behind his back in a dusty old basement of a building. Said building was either abandoned or occupied by deaf people who could not hear his screams for help.

"Forgive me if I don't believe what you have to say," grunted the interrogator.

"It's okay, Al. We have all the time in the world for you to remember," a new, unfamiliar voice assured him from behind. Al hadn't heard him come in, so whoever it was had probably been there the whole time. "But I recommend you do it before you start starving to death, because Mike here isn't really in the catering business. Personally, all I'm carrying at the moment are some breath mints and a pack of gum." Al heard some rustling in the same direction the voice had come from. "Oh, scratch that. I just found a cracker in my pocket. I doubt you can turn your head back this far, but trust me—it looks really gross. You're not going to want this."

Al ignored the casual, taunting voice behind him and spat out as much blood as he could to speak without gargling. It dribbled down onto his jeans, but Al didn't seem to mind. "Where is my wife? Where are my kids?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mike the interrogator snorted.

The voice behind him laughed, but not cruelly. It was more like the laughter one would hear at a comedy show. It sounded like it belonged to someone much younger than Mike, who looked to be in his mid-forties at the very least.

"They're fine," the young voice assured him. "And we'll have no reason to hurt them once we know the location of the Colt. You have my word."

Al sighed in defeat. When it came to his family, there was no other option, period.

"I never got his first name," Al told them. "He introduced himself by his surname, Elkins. This was about a decade ago, mind you, so I don't know if he'll still have the gun on him. We met at the Roadhouse."

"The Roadhouse?" Mike asked.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," Al clarified quickly. He spat out some more blood from his mouth without breaking eye contact with Mike. "It's a bar in Nebraska. Hotspot for hunters. Someone there might know the guy's name."

"Thank you, Al," the voice behind him said smoothly. "You've been a great help." Suddenly a shot rang out and Al slumped in his seat.

"You didn't need to come down here yourself, Diablo," the interrogator told him.

"I wanted to hear the information myself anyways," Diablo said. "Man, that was easier than I'd thought. Thanks for the help, Mikey-boy. I knew I could count on you."

"What do I do with his family?" Mike asked.

"Definitely kill Al's wife. She knows too much. If she tips off some of Al's friends, we'll be hunted for life. Do what you want with the kids. I don't really care."

"...Got it."

"Thanks again for doing this, buddy," Diablo said. "I know you're a busy guy. I mean, it's just great not having to get my hands dirty with this."

"Least I could do after you scored my li'l sis that big-time job in New Jersey."

"Aw shucks, that was nothing. She's a smart kid."

Their conversation was interrupted by the vibration of Diablo's phone, signalling a text message. He quickly scanned the screen before pocketing it again.

"Listen, I've got a meeting to go to right now. Yeah, I know it's a bit late for a meeting, but whatever. Can you handle everything here? Awesome. I'll call you up sometime, Mike. Drinks are on me."

Diablo climbed the stairs and left the dark asylum. He had to admit, the place was creepy. Old abandoned asylums were the perfect setup for a ghost story.

It wasn't haunted, though. Diablo had had his fair share of haunted, and there were no ghosts in the abandoned building. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of relief to breathe in the chilly midnight air once outside.

He was meeting the contact at the park, a ten minute walk from where he was if he took the shortcut. Still, he was tired as hell. Instead of walking to the park, he crossed the street to steal and hotwire a car. Most people wouldn't have gone through the trouble, but to Diablo it hardly took effort. The car started up within half a minute and he drove her down to the park.

When he arrived, it took at least another ten minutes to find his man. It was just past midnight, but there was a middle-aged couple taking a walk, a young man walking his dog, a young couple on top of the playground, and an old man sitting on the park bench.

At last, he spotted a dark figure standing by the swings.

"Is that you, Nick?" he called out.

Nick turned around. He looked to be in his late thirties and his suit fit him awkwardly because of his sheer muscle around his shoulders and arms. He looked at his client up and down.

"_You're_ Diablo?" Nick said with a raised eyebrow. "Are you even of drinking age?"

Diablo smirked. He walked towards Nick slowly. He was well-known for the way he walked. From his unsteady steps and his head that constantly moved like his neck was incapable of holding it up properly, he looked almost constantly drunk.

Another thing he was known for appearance-wise were his black leather gloves that he was almost always seen wearing. There were stories that underneath those gloves were claws because he really was a demon.

When people asked about the gloves, Diablo would simply flash them a smirk and say, "They're so I won't lose my grip on my weapon when there are blood and guts everywhere."

Though the man speaking with Nick had both these qualities, no one had mentioned that Diablo would be a kid who looked fresh out of college.

"Why do people react like that when they first see me? That's honestly the reaction I get every single time," Diablo laughed. His voice was light and confident. "What if I dyed my hair? I was thinking black. You think people would take me more seriously if I had black hair? It's a pretty serious colour."

Nick narrowed his eyes. Who the hell did this kid think he was? "Are you for real?"

Diablo's gaze took in the top of Nick's bald head. "Shoot. Awkward," he said unapologetically. "Anyways, you said you had information for me?"

Nick blinked. "I'm sorry, you're not actually _the_ Diablo, are you? I mean, the things that I've heard he's capable of... One of my colleagues told me they saw somebody stab him in the gut once and he didn't even flinch. You look more like you wandered off the pages of a Sears magazine. "

Diablo didn't look offended at all. He seemed to have a permanent smirk that drew half of his mouth upwards in an arrogant smile.

"What could I possibly do to convince you that I am indeed the one and only man named Diablo?"

Nick shook his head sadly. "It's not what you can do to prove that you are Diablo. It's what you haven't done that proves you're not."

Diablo's head continued to roll from side to side as he spoke. "Oh? And what haven't I done?"

"If you were truly Diablo, you wouldn't have come alone. It was foolish," Nick grunted, crossing his meaty arms. "I don't know who you are, but you are insulting his title."

"You came alone too, didn't you? Doesn't that make you look just as foolish?" the young man claiming to be Diablo said mockingly.

"I'm afraid I didn't, actually," Nick informed him. "You didn't notice the fake beard on the old man sitting on the bench? He's not the only one, either."

"They were all placed in case the real Diablo showed up?"

"It's nothing personal. I have nothing against the guy, but I was offered a large sum of money to dispose of him," Nick said plainly, shrugging. "I guess I'll have to settle for you right now. MEN!"

There was no gunfire. No noise at all.

Nick looked wildly around the park. All the other people in the park were slumped over or lying on the ground.

Diablo started to laugh. "You're right, Diablo would be a fool to meet a shady contact in a random location by himself. Especially when dealing with business involving Bela Talbot. See, if I were Diablo? I'd expect nothing less than a trap. Let me take a wild guess: you're working under Bela herself, aren't you?"

Nick's mouth was wide open. Stupid, stupid. "So... I suppose you're the real deal then?"

"I didn't notice the fake beard, actually, but I've been to this place plenty of times. A man walking his dog this late at night is a bit conspicuous, unlike my lone sniper hidden in the dark." The smirk was gone and for the first time, Diablo's head was upright and steady as he stared at Nick. "So, what, does this mean you didn't actually bring any information?"

His voice was steely and stern, chasing a trickling bead of sweat down Nick's forehead. Diablo had just found out he'd tried to kill him. Suddenly the young man was looking much more threatening than before. Where he'd once seen innocence sparkling in his eyes, he now saw the lack of sanity within. Nick had never feared for his life more.

"Yes, I-I do. And I've decided to change my terms. This information is free. No cost whatsoever," Nick said good-naturedly.

"Wha-at?" Diablo drew it out with an amused grin, all seriousness suddenly evaporating. "That's awesome, Nicky. So go on and tell me. No need for documents or anything, I'll remember."

Nick gulped. He could probably take down the kid fast, but the hidden sniper eliminated that possibility.

"Her real name is Abby-"

"Knew that already. I like calling her Bela, though."

"And, um, her family was very wealthy growing up. When she was 14, the brake lines in the family car were mysteriously cut and her parents died in an accident. She inherited the family fortune as the only heir. Not much else is known about her, but I've tracked at least thirty-seven cons across the country that look like her work. Most of them have to do with ghosts and other supernatural creatures, strangely enough."

A raised eyebrow. "Oh. That is very fascinating."

"Lastly, I found her storage lock-up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It's registered under the name of Trix Lestrange and that's all I know," Nick finished.

"Great work, Nick," Diablo told him. "You don't happen to know the combination to enter, would you? No? Nah, that's okay. Any more information and I'd feel bad about killing you."

Nick's eyes widened as it registered the glowing red dot on his chest and his body fell to the ground before he could defend himself.

Diablo waved his hand in thanks in the general direction of where the shot had come from.

"Drinks are on me next time I'm in town, dude!" he called out to the dark. Ever the professional, the sniper did not respond so as not to give away his position to any potential hidden enemies.

Diablo sighed as he lit up a cigarette and began the walk back to his car, the amulet Sam had given to him so many years ago bouncing against his chest with every step he took.

Diablo—or rather, Dean—was not a gang leader or a member of the Mafia or anything. He was more of a conman whose business frequently involved the shadier part of society. He had a lot of respect in the streets and whenever he needed something done, there was a friend that would gladly do it for him.

Mikey had recommended the basement of the abandoned asylum to him for an interrogation, for example, and had even offered to get his own hands dirty for him. Afterwards, Dean had called up Richie, who owed Dean for killing his ex-wife without arousing suspicion a few years back. Richie was excellent with a rifle, and he was always the first one Dean called in New York when he needed backup.

The first thing Dean did when he reached the stolen car was readjust the mirror so he could see his hair. He was careful to position the mirror so that it wouldn't show any other part of his face. Dean delicately fixed his perfectly messy hair and smoothed out the front of his dress shirt before starting up the engine.

It was a pity he had to leave the city so soon. He had more friends here in New York than anywhere else, and he liked the respectful looks he got from strangers as he walked past them. Still, he had to find the Roadhouse in Nebraska and that Bela Talbot's lock-up in South Dakota. Dean Winchester was a busy man.

00000

"Yeah?"

"Hi Bobby, it's Bela." The British accent-tinged voice on the other end was pleasant and light-hearted. Whoever it was wanted something from him.

"Bela? Who the hell is—oh, Bela Talbot?" Bobby Singer wrinkled his nose but didn't hang up. He'd never liked Bela.

"From Flagstaff," she confirmed. "I happen to have heard you've been looking for fluxweed," she said. "And I happened to have procured some."

"That's great. What the hell do you want?" His voice was blunt.

Bela got straight down to it. "There's going to be a man breaking into my fake storage unit a few miles from your house. I need you to take a picture of him and run it by your contacts for information," she told him. "I'll take anything: a name, family, even his real age."

"What do I look like, a damn Facebook wall?"

"You know what Facebook is?" Bela gasped with mock surprise. "Will you never cease to amaze me, Bobby Singer? I mean, that's not exactly what a Facebook wall is for, but I'm impressed nonetheless."

"Let me guess. You pissed him off and you need leverage against him?"

Bela giggled, conceding. "You and I only met for a few days," Bela said with amusement. "I'm surprised you know me so well."

"Is he a hunter?"

He could sense her hesitation on the other end. "Not exactly. He's much smarter than all you other crazy Neanderthals plundering around the country looking for monsters. He only hunts if there's something in it for him. He uses the supernatural to his advantage. He's a mean one, Bobby. You'd be doing the world a favour by giving me dirt on him."

"So far he just sounds like a male version of you."

"Have you really lowered yourself to vulgar insults? I'm scratching off those points I gave you for knowing what Facebook is."

Bobby sighed. "Let's say you're actually telling the truth for once. Can you give me a description so I know what to look for? A name? Maybe I've already heard of him."

"Oh, I doubt it," Bela said airily. "He has a lot of names, but I need you to find his real one. The most common is 'Diablo'. God, I feel ridiculous just saying it. He's often underestimated because," Bella paused and cleared her throat before continuing, "well, he has a very pretty face if I must say. Oh, but you can tell if it's him if he's wearing black leather gloves. He never takes them off, for some reason." She hesitated once more. "I hear he killed Albert Daniels last night."

"Al?" Bobby and Al had been drinking buddies together at the Roadhouse years ago. Eventually Al had settled down with a family, which was rare for a hunter, so Bobby had left him in peace. He'd always hoped Al would die in a nice non-violent fashion, unlike the others in the business. "Give me the address of the place, Bela. I'll ID this kid in a few days time."

"Excellent. Expect the fluxweed in the mail. Oh, and one last thing, Bobby? This man is smart. When I first met him, he'd somehow conned my client into giving him a few million and then killing herself. No threats or anything, they just talked for a few minutes. So whatever you do, don't approach him and don't say a word to him." _Click._

Bobby set down the phone and grabbed his hunting rifle. Like hell he wasn't going to approach the guy who killed Al.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm turning on anonymous reviews, so even if you don't have an account you do not have an excuse to not review!<strong>

**Seriously though, you guys have to at least review this chapter so I know if I should finish up the next chapter and post it. It shall get interesting... :D**

**...and yeah, Dean's a badass. No puppies and rainbows here, folks.**


	2. The Gloves

**Haha so I've gotten quite a few reviews that are like, 'Dean's too evil!' No such thing, readers... no such thing... ;)**

**But in all seriousness, I really couldn't help it. I recently saw this Asian western movie called 'The Good, the Bad, and the Weird' and the bad guy was SO intense I loved him. Dean's character in this story was largely based on the actor's performance in that movie. If you can, look for the movie with subtitles and watch it!**

**Don't worry, Dean didn't become a monster overnight. Backstory will be revealed slowly. It can never completely justify what he's done, but hopefully it will at least shed some light on _why_ he does these things.**

**Also in my defense, Dean became a real bastard in the episode 'The End' when he was apart from Sammy for 5 years. Afterwards he said, 'We're all we've got. More than that... we keep each other human.' So I kinda figure that Sam's the only thing keeping Dean from going dark side (and vice versa, but that's another story, folks).**

**All right, I know some of you totally skipped that but whatever.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: The Gloves<strong>

_**"Hi. Glad to meet you. Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard."**_

_**-Bobby, 'Let it Bleed'**_

* * *

><p><em>Nameless Road<em>

_Anderson, California_

_May 1st, 1994_

Dean shivered even though it really wasn't that cold this time of year in California. He figured it was partly the sense of foreboding at what he was about to do, and partly because he was so malnourished. Living in the streets wasn't treating him all that well.

Still, if anything, the dark alleys had taught him a lot. No school could teach someone about the skills he'd picked up on. One of these skills was instinct. From a childhood of killing monsters, Dean's instincts had already been better than most adults. But he lived in the darkest corners of the world where the scum of humanity was constantly surrounding him, and he was most likely one of the very few hobos that had to worry about demons that were trying to hunt him down, so his sixth sense had to constantly be on alert.

It was because of this that Dean didn't jump whatsoever when a voice came up from behind him, seemingly from out of nowhere.

"Well. Do my eyes deceive me or is this really John Winchester's eldest boy?" the demon smiled, her eyes briefly glowing red. It was in the body of a gorgeous young woman in her early twenties. She wore an elegant black strapless that highlighted her curvaceous figure. She looked more like she belonged in a high society cocktail party rather than a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

"This must be what the kids of celebrities feel like," Dean said dryly, not cracking a smile. "Let's get to business. I want to make a deal."

"A deal? I gotta say, you've got to be the youngest kid I've ever met who willingly summoned a crossroads demon. What are you, ten?" She walked towards him slowly and seductively.

"Fifteen."

"Oh, aren't you all grown up?" she said with a giggle that made Dean grit his teeth. "Then again, most kids don't have daddies like John. So, I guess you know how this usually works? A kiss, your wish granted, and ten years until you come due?"

Dean was shaking his head. "I'm not giving you my soul. Not yet." He felt even colder as the demon started to seriously test the limits of his personal space. He gulped. "It's not a big wish. I just need you to make a surgical operation to succeed. It's not like I'm asking you to raise the dead or anything."

"What are you willing to offer?"

"Entertainment." He said it with confidence, not hesitating. He'd thought about it on the way there.

It was satisfying to see the demon looked taken aback, if only for a moment. She quickly recovered and laughed. The demon's laugh was loud and high-pitched and it echoed in the silence.

"Entertainment?" she repeated. "Kid, we demons don't perform miracles to watch people tap dance! Try again."

"You really think I had tap dancing in mind?" Dean scoffed. "I know what you sadistic bastards find entertaining. Chernobyl was probably the 'Citizen Kane' for demons."

The demon snickered at that. "For a kid, you know your stuff. You know what? This is actually interesting. Who do you want healed, kid?"

"My brother. Sammy," Dean answered immediately. "He was stabbed earlier today and the doctors said the operation is practically hopeless. There's a ninety-eight percent chance he'll never walk again. I need you to make that two percent happen."

"Cute," the demon sneered, obviously not finding it cute at all. "You that crazy about your brother, kid?"

"You have no idea."

"So what's this entertainment that you're willing to show me?"

"This," Dean replied, pulling something from the pocket of his tattered jeans. The demon studied it carefully, but didn't touch it. It was an anti-possession charm. Dean dropped it on the ground and kicked it a few metres away.

"A voluntary possession?" the demon clarified. "That's not a bad offer. How do I know it's not a trap?"

"My brother's life is on the line. I don't have a whole lot of options," Dean assured her.

The demon sniffed snobbishly. "Nah, that's not enough. Here's what I propose." The demon circled Dean slowly, her fingertips lightly touching his frayed jacket. "There are two conditions—both of which will entertain me enough to shift the probability in your brother's favour."

"I'm listening."

"Let's see, I'm just making this up as I go along." The demon tapped her chin for a few seconds as if in careful consideration before picking up a stone from the ground and handing it to him. "First, you use this to saw off three living human fingers." Dean stared down at the stone and tried to mask his horror. He felt the edges with his fingertips. It was sharp, but not nearly sharp enough to cut through human flesh and bone. It would be excruciatingly painful for the victim. "That one's just for my personal pleasure. Secondly, from now on you pretend John Winchester is not your father."

Dean's eyes widened and for a moment he forgot about the first condition. "What? Why?" he demanded.

"Your father is well-known, but not well-liked," the demon smirked. "His eldest son avoiding him for the rest of his life? Now that's entertainment." Dean stared down at the rock in his hand, his resolve shaken. "So what do you say, kid? It's not a bad deal. Most people have to go to hell for eternity for a wish. But I like you, Dean."

Surely his dad wouldn't disapprove, would he? After all, he'd always told Dean to protect Sam and that's what he was doing.

Dean looked up into the demon's eyes steadily, his face hard and determined. His father was on death row anyway. And what would he say if he knew some of things Dean had done to survive? Dean wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to face his dad again.

"It's Sammy's birthday in a few hours," Dean said quietly.

"Do I look like I care, kid?"

"You should. It means that I'll do it."

She smiled. "That's what I like to hear. Alright, last details. You can't communicate at all with your father. No messages or hidden codes or talking through other people. If you run into him, you ignore him and deny being his son." Dean winced. "It's not like I'll be watching you all the time, but the deal runs on a pretty automatic system. Once any of my rules are broken, li'l Sammy will instantly be in a wheelchair for the remainder of his life."

"When do you want the fingers by?"

"I'll give you twenty-four hours," the demon shrugged.

"Agreed... bitch."

Without another word, the demon pulled his head in for a long kiss. When they broke apart, Dean made an expression of disgust.

"Get me those three fingers soon, kiddo," the demon grinned. Suddenly she began to laugh once more as she noticed what he was doing.

Dean was sitting in the middle of the abandoned dirt road, using the rock on three of his own fingers.

"When you said you could entertain me, you weren't kidding kid," the demon said gleefully as she watched him bash his fingers with the rock over and over.

00000

_Sioux Falls Self-Storage, Men's washroom_

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

_September_ _10, 2005_

Dean stuffed his clothes in his bag as he checked out his new outfit in the bathroom mirror. That day he was going for more of an innocent look in case Bela had notified someone to ambush him.

Recently-dyed black hair spiked at the front, a long-sleeved hoodie to cover the tattoos, and cargo shorts. He also carried a backpack to look more like a school kid and in case he had to bring anything out of the unit. He analyzed himself in the grimy mirror one last time.

The difference that his new black hair made was pretty amazing. His skin looked paler, his cheekbones were more prominent, and his facial features were more striking. He felt like he was staring at a stranger in the mirror, which he found he didn't mind at all. He hated it when Dean stared back at him with his stupid judgmental eyes. The less he looked like himself, the better. Satisfied, he nodded and took off his leather gloves to wash his hands.

Dean rinsed and soaped, making sure to clean his three prosthetic fingers carefully, though they rarely saw the light of day being hidden under his gloves all the time.

Slipping the gloves back on, Dean shouldered his backpack and left the public washroom of the storage facility.

The place was dingy and old. He hadn't even had to show identification to prove that he owned one of the storage units. Dean wondered why anybody would want to leave valuable possessions in a place like this. The fence keeping strangers out was rusted and didn't even have barbed wire on top, the paint was peeling on all the doors, and maybe it was just the weather that day, but everything looked so grey.

Dean approached Bela's storage unit warily. The woman was crafty, much craftier than the late Nick. It was definitely a possibility that this was a trap and his hopes were not high.

As soon as he got close to the unit of 'Trix Lestrange', Dean got the feeling that someone was watching him. He immediately got rid of the signature swagger in his walk that usually came to him automatically, but didn't slow down or stop.

The lock-up unit was a dump. It didn't even have a keypad to open up the units. All that was stopping a robbery from taking place was a flimsy metal lock that would take him less than a minute to open. Dean sighed. This was definitely too easy. Now there was no doubt it was a trap. Knowing Bela, there was probably a bomb or something on the other side of the door.

Dean didn't even bother picking the lock. Instead, he pulled out a small piece of paper and scribbled down a small message for his adversary, which he tucked into the crack under the door.

He walked back to his car, disappointed that Bela had managed to trick yet another one of his informants. The person watching him didn't seem to be making any move on him so Dean decided not to pursue it.

He was almost at his car when he heard a gun cock behind him.

_Ah, damn it._

Dean slowly raised his hands and didn't turn around.

"What's your name, kid?" It was a rough, low voice. Even with his back to him, Dean could smell whiskey on his breath when he spoke.

"J-Joshua, my name is Joshua!" Dean stuttered in a voice a couple octaves higher than his usual. "T-take whatever you want, just don't hurt me!"

The man scoffed from behind him. "Joshua? That the best you can do?" A pause. "You killed Albert Daniels."

It wasn't a question. "Listen sir, I don't know who you think I am..." Dean was pleased that he'd managed just the right amount of tremor into his voice.

"I think you're a damn fine actor," the man grunted. "Turn around."

Dean slowly turned to face his assailant. It was an old guy with a beard who looked exactly like he sounded. In fact, Dean felt like he'd already had an image of him before he even saw him. The old coot had a baseball cap on his head and a Winchester rifle in his hands, which was just a touch ironic. The guy was definitely a hunter.

There was something about the man's face that bugged Dean. Like maybe he'd seen him before, a long time ago. He was so caught up staring at the man that he'd forgotten to adopt his frightened little boy expression.

"You can stop pretending, kid. She told me you'd be wearing black leather gloves." Bobby nodded to Dean's raised hands.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "That changes things. So what, are you going to kill me?" His voice was back to its regular husky pitch.

"I'd really like to," Bobby replied. "I've got a question first. What's so important under those gloves of yours that you never take them off?"

Dean let the entire act drop. His head automatically started rolling from front to the sides again though his eyes remained steadily on Bobby's face. His shoulders relaxed and his cocky smirk was in place.

"You know, that's kind of an awkward conversation-starter," Dean drawled. "I mean, regular people chat about the weather or sports... I think, anyway. I don't know a whole lot of regular people."

"Christ, you're as much of a smart-ass as she is," Bobby growled.

"Oh, so now we're just plain insulting each other? Now I know for _certain_ that this isn't how socializing works!"

"All right, how 'bout this for socializing? Why'd you kill Al?"

Dean chuckled. "Sorry, was he a buddy of yours?" He gave Bobby a lopsided grin. "He just knew about this guy who has something I need. I couldn't risk him tipping off this guy, so I had to get rid of him." Dean sighed painfully. "Now I gotta find a roadhouse or whatever."

Bobby stiffened. "The Roadhouse?"

Dean silently cursed himself. He hadn't thought Bobby would have known what he was talking about. Still, he remained calm and collected on the outside. "You know the place? Hey, forget about Bela and let's go together. Drinks are on me."

"Do I _look_ like a damn idjit to ya?"

_You damn idjit._

_Winchester, you damn idjit, you're gonna get us all killed!_

The voice rang in his head several times before Dean blinked and shook his head like he'd been punched. A distant memory resurfaced, as if from a dream.

Dean's early years were difficult to recall. It wasn't amnesia or anything; he'd simply shoved those memories into a box and hidden it in his mind. Over time, everything before he lost his three fingers was forgotten—or rather, not thought about.

For the first time in years, an old memory managed to resurface and Dean couldn't help but flinch when he finally recognized the man in front of him.

"Bobby?" Dean breathed, the smile gone. "Bobby Singer?"

"Am I supposed to know you from somewhere?" Bobby growled.

Dean paused, not quite sure how to answer. He considered telling the old man the truth for a second, before remembering there was a possibility that Bobby Singer had betrayed their family. Somebody close to John Winchester had gotten him landed in jail, on death row. There was a chance, though an incredibly unlikely one, that the man standing in front of Dean had ruined his entire life.

More than that, though, a tiny part of Dean felt shame, although he hadn't felt it in so long he wasn't quite sure what it was anymore. He'd always respected Bobby as a kid. He knew Bobby would be disappointed in what he'd become, and for some reason Dean cared about that fact.

"No. Uh, no, we've never met," Dean said quickly.

He was suddenly glad that his amulet was tucked underneath his shirt. Bobby would have recognized it immediately. Jeez, and thank god he'd decided to dye his hair that morning too, just on a half-drunken whim. It was just another layer of disguise that worked to his benefit.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, kid," Bobby said, frowning. "Though I doubt something like that would scare you." He looked up thoughtfully, reconsidering his statement. "You look like you saw that movie with the Olsen twins in New York."

Dean recomposed his face quickly. "Real cute, Bobby. Bet you've been waiting a long time to use that one."

"Hell no. That was just how my face looked when I saw it," Bobby replied. "So what exactly are you looking for, Diablo? It must be something important, to kill an innocent man and his family over."

"It wasn't just the information he had. I mean sure, the info was important, but I don't kill people over something like that," Dean said. Bobby snorted. "No, I'm serious. Your buddy Al? I first met him when he was still hunting, and he was just a total douchebag. Not to mention a terrible hunter."

Bobby scoffed. "Oh, okay. That's a much better reason for killing him. I'll be letting you go now. Be off on your merry way!"

Dean sighed. "Come on, you clearly never physically hunted with him before. He never bothered doing research and ended up killing innocents a third of the time. Meanwhile, he doesn't even realize that his own wife is a shapeshifter," Dean justified as he locked his eyes with Bobby's.

"So is horse crap the only thing that ever comes out of your mouth or what?" Bobby said, deadpan, though Dean could swear he looked a little shaken.

"Nah, Bobby, for real. Obviously, my boy Mike had no idea that the gun I gave him was loaded with silver bullets and that he killed a shapeshifter with it, but the end result is the same. An idiotic asshole and a monster died. No big loss."

"And the kids?" Bobby asked. "Not that if makes a difference, but I'm curious. What the hell kind of excuse do you have for killing them?"

"Ah, Bobby. The kids are fine! Mike doesn't think I know about it, but he loves kids. He'd rather die than kill one. Honestly, he's probably just gone and adopted them at this point," Dean said. His voice then dropped and became more serious. "Listen, I'm no monster. I don't have anything against hunters. They get in the way a lot, but it's the supernatural freaks I hate the most. Not killing me could be the best thing that could happen to you."

Bobby had a look on his face that plainly expressed, "You must think I was born yesterday."

"I'm serious, old man. You could help me look for something, and in return I'd definitely help you out with whatever you need. I'm a guy you want as an ally, Bobby," Dean continued. He knew Bobby didn't believe him, but Dean was serious. Dean could easily overpower him if he wanted to, but there was no way he'd do that to Bobby unless he really had no other options. He'd much rather re-befriend him than become his enemy.

Before Bobby could answer, his phone started to ring. Normally Bobby would ignore it, but very few people had the number for the cell he was carrying with him. It was most likely an emergency. He made a face.

Bobby pulled a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at Dean instead of the rifle, which he hung on his shoulder by the leather strap. Keeping the gun steady at Dean's face, he pulled his phone out of his pocket with the other hand.

"If this ain't an emergency, you'd best hang up right now," Bobby growled.

Dean couldn't make out what the guy on the other end was saying, but Bobby looked surprised.

"Sam?" Bobby said. Dean immediately tensed, staring at the phone intently now. "Kid, if I had more time on my hands, I'd give you an earful for not keeping in touch. Is it so hard to pick up a phone once in a while to let me know you're not dead?"

Dean gulped. Could it be... _his_ Sammy? He remained silent and strained to hear the voice on the other end. He heard the sound of laughter, and then a few garbled words that he couldn't make out.

"Why're you suddenly curious about your mother, boy?" Bobby asked. His eyes remained on Dean, who he noticed had dropped his usual arrogant expression and was looking pale. Bobby tried to speak quietly, but in the silence of their surroundings, Dean could hear everything anyway. "The demon stuck her on the ceiling and roasted her alive."

Dean's hands had started shaking involuntarily as more unwanted memories were brought up. He didn't remember how his mother's voice had sounded when she read him stories at night, but the ghost of her bloodcurdling scream rang in his ears and he could practically smell her burning flesh.

There was absolute silence outside of his head in the real world. It finally kicked in that _Sam_ was on the other end of that phone. His little brother. If he grabbed the phone now from Bobby, he would hear his voice again. Nonetheless, he somehow managed to restrain himself. After about a half minute of quiet on both ends of the phone, Sam's distorted voice finally mumbled a few more indistinguishable words.

Bobby's face was solemn. "That sounds like a vision," he muttered. "I'm coming over to California, kid. Put up all the protection you can in the house and make sure your girl stays close to you. I gotta go now. I'll call you as soon as I'm done here." He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He spoke to Dean now. "So—you want to tell me why you look so spooked, kid?"

Dean gulped and fought to get his composure back. It was useless. He couldn't stop thinking of seeing his beautiful mother at such an unnatural angle, bleeding and crying and burning; of Sammy, laughing and smiling and sobbing; and of Bobby, playing catch with Dean to make him feel like a normal kid for once in his messed up childhood.

_Focus,_ Dean told himself, actually shaking his head to dispel the mental images. _You're not that kid anymore._

"What the hell's wrong with you-" Before Bobby could finish, Dean kicked the revolver out of his hands with lightning speed and punched the older man in the gut. Before Bobby could recover and get the rifle out again, Dean had the revolver pointing at his forehead.

"The demon cut her open, too," Dean told him, wide-eyed and visibly shaken. His mask of Diablo was long gone.

"What?"

"He didn't just stick her on the ceiling and roast her. He slashed her gut and while she was bleeding, he pinned her on the nursery ceiling, right above the crib," Dean was looking at Bobby's confused face, but wasn't truly seeing it. "She was alive up there for awhile until he lit her up."

Before the other man could respond, Dean made a short sprint between him and his car and flung open the door. By the time Bobby had stood up again, Dean's foot was already on the pedal and he sped off, leaving old memories behind him.

00000

_Heaven's Gate Hotel, Room 157_

_Los Angeles, California_

_November 1st, 2005 (7 weeks later)_

The phone was ringing obnoxiously. Dean considered letting it go to voicemail, but thought better of it. His eyes still closed, he reached out for the bedside table and his hand felt around until it grabbed the phone.

"Hello?" Dean yawned into the phone.

"Hey man, it's me, Jenkins."

This got Dean's attention right away. No longer half-asleep, he sat upright in bed. "What do you got for me?" He spoke quietly, so as not to wake up the girl in bed with him.

"I got good news and bad news."

"Bad news first." Dean nestled the phone between his ear and bare shoulder as he pulled on his briefs and then his jeans.

"Someone already ganked Daniel Elkins. I checked his house, but someone was there before me. The Colt was missing."

Dean rubbed his face with his free hand. "Perfect," he murmured. "Just perfect. Please tell me the good news will make up for this."

"Good news is totally unrelated," Jenkins told him. "I found that guy you were looking for in California. He goes by the street name 'Tombstone' and just about everybody wants a piece of him."

Dean perked up. "So why isn't he dead yet?" He hoped to god it wasn't a reason like 'he's handicapped' or 'he recently became a very good person'. Dean had plans for this man.

"He's a pretty scary guy. Friends in high places, ya dig? But if someone like you dealt with him..."

"Hey, I'm no vigilante, Jenkins," Dean laughed into the phone. "This is strictly personal. Where can I find him?"

"I've got one of his numbers. You said you were in town, right? Just arrange a meeting with him yourself. I'm sure he'll be curious enough to meet the infamous Diablo."

"Thanks, man. I don't have a pen on me, do you mind texting me his number? I owe you big time."

Now it was Jenkins's turn to laugh. "Are you kidding? This doesn't even close to make up for the time you helped me out with those guys in NYC. Thanks to you my little bro can rest in peace."

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Don't worry about it. This definitely makes us square now. See you later, man."

"Drop by sometime, dude." _Click_.

Dean put on a black v-neck and a black suit jacket on. There was definitely going to be bloodshed today and light colours were not ideal. Finally, he pulled on his black leather gloves. He had to; he felt naked without them.

He was already wearing the amulet Sam had given him years ago—he hardly ever took it off—but as his phone vibrated in his pocket to signal an incoming text message, he forgot to tuck it in his shirt as he usually might have done.

Dean didn't even give a second glance to the naked girl sleeping on his bed (she would probably be gone by the time he got back anyway, he knew her type) as he strode out of the room, dialling the number Jenkins had texted him.

Over ten years ago he had lost three fingers. One finger for each guy that had put Sammy in the hospital that day, he supposed. He'd already found and dealt with two of them. Today he would finally bring justice to the third. He couldn't help but feel a bit excited.

00000

Sam was in a terrible mood. His head was pounding from having had one too many drinks at the Halloween party last night. He'd always hated Halloween. It was all Jess's fault.

Why did his mom have to be born the day after Halloween anyway? Honestly, there couldn't be a worst time to celebrate her birthday. On top of it all, Sam had an important interview to a prestigious law school on Monday so he and Jess had to get back soon.

"Need another aspirin, Sam?" Jess asked him, barely holding back a smirk. She was apparently very content with the fact that Sam's alcohol tolerance was lower than hers.

"I'm good," Sam said reluctantly. "I don't want to fall asleep standing." He caught a glimpse of his girlfriend's expression. "Oh, get that smile off your face."

Her response was a small giggle which Sam felt was more effective than any aspirin he'd taken.

The couple was on a bus on their way to their homes, which were right next door to each other. Sam and Jess had known each other for most of their lives and both had ended up going to Stanford University.

Their neighbourhood was in the richer, upper-class part of Los Angeles. From the appearances of some of the passengers on the bus, it was still a long way to go. Sam could have sworn the tall, buff man in the corner was hiding a dog under his shirt.

At the next stop, two seats together were free—previously occupied by a large man in nothing but jeans and a teenager with a not-so-subtle tattoo of a dick on her cheek—and Sam was nudged in the ribs by his girlfriend.

"What?" he groaned, his eyes closed.

"Oh, suck it up," Jess grinned at him. "Let's sit down."

Sam blinked, noticing the empty seats for the first time. He sank down in one of them with a sigh of relief.

On Sam's left was a young man who looked about his age, maybe older. He immediately set Sam's nerves on edge. It wasn't just the multiple piercings in his ear, which his mother would instantly disapprove of, or even the fact that he was dressed like an assassin. There were far stranger people on the bus. There was something in his face that made Sam feel apprehensive.

Sam hadn't realized he was staring until the man turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to stare? Or maybe there's something you'd like to confess to your girlfriend over there?"

Jess looked across Sam and observed the man. If anyone else had said it, she probably would have given them a smart remark in response. However, she got the same dangerous feeling from him that Sam had and wisely decided not to say anything to provoke him.

Sam immediately felt colour rise in his cheeks. "Sorry, man. I-" he cut himself off, staring at the necklace he now noticed hanging from the stranger's neck. "Where did you get that?"

It was a thin black cord with a shiny metallic pendant shaped like a strange monster head. Sam had only seen it once before. It was the amulet he'd given Dean.

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><p><strong>Thank you for all the lovely reviews my dahlings! Next chapter Dean gets to kick some ass. I hope everyone can follow the story, I like to jump between times so read the dates carefully.<strong>

**Review! The story's not set in stone, so I 'd love to hear some ideas from all of you. You guys can be like the beta-reader I never had  
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**P.S. Sammy Winchester was in that movie with the Olsen twins, in case you were wondering why Bobby had been watching it in the first place ;)  
><strong>


	3. The Hatred

**I didn't write anything for a week and suddenly this chapter just popped out of nowhere, dunno how it happened haha. Whatevs, it feels great to upload something!**

**For those worrying how out of character Dean-o is, he'll get a bit better when he's with Sam again :) Oh, and John will be in the story, just not yet.  
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** :P Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: The Hatred<strong>

_**"If you hurt my brother, I'll kill you, I swear. I'll kill you all! I WILL KILL YOU ALL!" **_

_**-Dean, 'The Benders'**_

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><p>The dude and his girl sitting next to Dean didn't belong around here, that was for sure. The blonde was openly ogling at every passenger in the bus like a goddamned three-year-old and the guy didn't even try to hide the fact he was staring at Dean as he sat in the seat next to them.<p>

The girl wasn't too shabby-looking, Dean had to admit. The girl back in his hotel room had a prettier face, but Dean appreciated this stranger's figure even hidden as it was under her thick autumn coat.

Speaking of which, Dean wouldn't be surprised if they walked off the bus right then and got mugged within the next five minutes. Unlike the other passengers on the bus, there wasn't a scratch on their clothes, which looked like they were bought somewhere where a belly piercing would be considered punishable by death.

The guy had shaggy brown hair and bangs covering his forehead. Though he was certainly taller than Dean, he looked like such a child. It was clear the guy had been sheltered and spoiled. He didn't have the hard look on his face like most people Dean knew.

"Where did you get that?"

Dean looked down to see what the kid was staring at. It was the necklace. Okay, he really did not want to talk about this. Thank god his stop was next.

If Dean hadn't been in such a good mood that morning, he probably would have beaten up the kid right then and there. He was pissing him off, which was generally something people tended to try to avoid with Dean. Also, the kid looked like he hadn't seen his fair share of brawling in his lifetime, and that just wasn't fair.

Even though he was itching to throw a few punches, Dean was saving himself for his opponent later that day. It was probably going to be a much better fight than anything he'd get out of this yuppie kid anyhow.

Plus, there was something in the kid's face that pacified him. Hell, Dean would let this one slide.

"Tiffany's has, like, the best selection _ever_," Dean grinned in his best valley girl impression. "You should totally try them out sometime."

The kid stared at him, incredibly bewildered. "What?"

Instantly the grin was gone, replaced by an expression of mock frustration. "What country you from?" he demanded, his accent and demeanour changing drastically.

The kid looked to his girlfriend for help, who merely shrugged, before stuttering, "Uh, what?"

"'What' ain't no country I ever heard of," Dean said adamantly. "They speak English in 'What'?"

The blonde girl nudged her boyfriend with her elbow. "Pulp Fiction. He's quoting Samuel L. Jackson," she informed him.

Dean's voice went back to normal and he was all smiles again. "Is that really his name? You know, for the longest time I thought his name was just 'Samue.' Samue L. Jackson."

The shaggy-haired kid didn't crack a smile. If anything, his expression was even more solemn.

"Look, I'm serious," the boy pressed on, almost completely sure he was talking to a nutcase. "I need to know where you got that amulet."

Behind him, Dean could see his girlfriend looking very confused, but she didn't say a word.

Dean himself was feeling his good mood start to wear down. He'd just thrown this guy a bone and the kid still wouldn't shut up. He could feel the bus slowing down, though, so he didn't have time to give him a good ol' smack in the face.

"It belonged to the first guy I killed," Dean told him, still grinning at him with his head tilted to the side. In a way, it was true. Dean Winchester, child hunter and big brother, was long gone. Mainly though, he hoped it would just shut the rich boy up until it was his turn to get off.

His statement had an odd effect on the boy next to him, though. The guy paled instantly. What the hell? Well, whatever. It was his stop. Dean stood up and left the bus before the kid could recover. Behind him, he heard the guy shout, "Hey! Wait!" but Dean ignored it, instead checking his cell phone for the time of day.

Back on the bus, Jess had to hold Sam down from going after the stranger.

"What's wrong with you, Sam?" she hissed.

The bus had started moving again and Sam watched the guy in black turn a corner and disappear.

"Have I ever told you I had a brother?" Sam asked Jess.

"I thought you only had a younger sister," Jess said, though she realized what Sam had said the moment after she had spoken. "You _had_ a brother? So, you mean before you were adopted?"

Sam nodded. "That guy... He had my brother's necklace," Sam said softly. "And he said he killed the owner of that necklace."

Jess frowned. She had known Sam was adopted, but he'd never mentioned his family from before. She held his hand comfortingly, knowing it was too late to get off the bus and chase the stranger.

"I'm sure there are other necklaces like it," Jess assured him. "Even if it was the same necklace, your brother could have lost it or had it stolen a long time ago."

Sam swallowed. "Yeah," he said, not looking at his girlfriend. "Yeah."

00000

The meeting place was an old pub. It was daytime so the neon sign was not lit, but it was so completely covered by dust and grime that it didn't seem like the owner would even bother to turn it on at night either.

The man known as Tombstone strolled into the seedy bar with confidence, not missing the many glares shot his way. He guessed about half of the bar's customers knew him and wanted him dead, but they all knew better than to try anything.

He locked eyes with a guy in a booth that he had seen around before, and bared his teeth—golden ones included—at him threateningly. The guy quickly looked away and stared down at his drink.

Tombstone's eyes scanned the place, looking for the man he was meeting. There were quite a few faces he didn't recognize, and he watched all of them closely. One of them was the almighty 'Diablo' himself.

However, none of the strangers seemed to pop out or seem particularly dangerous. Tombstone quickly gave up.

"Which one of you is Diablo?" Tombstone bellowed so everyone could hear. Everyone who hadn't been glaring at him before was certainly doing it now.

Needless to say, he'd been expecting a manly roar to respond, belonging to someone perhaps as muscular as himself. After all, Diablo had quite the reputation in all the underground fighting leagues. He was undefeated and apparently unkillable (that was a word, right?). His mental image of the man was a tall humanoid monster.

He certainly had _not_ been expecting the lean, neatly-dressed, clean-cut kid who didn't even look like he weighed more than a hundred fifty pounds.

Dean raised his hand from his booth to catch Tombstone's attention. His first impression of Tombstone was an extremely oversized playground bully. Liked to intimidate people, but had more bark than bite. He wore a simple white wife-beater that revealed arms covered in ink with the names of the various prisons he'd served. Dean held back a scoff when he saw the bandanna around the shaven head and the goatee. This guy was the walking stereotype of a street thug.

Almost everyone in the joint was watching him and Tombstone, some indiscreetly, and others not so much. They were probably waiting for a fight to break out. The Tombstone versus the Diablo? The whole block would be talking for weeks. Well, Dean never liked to disappoint...

Dean exhaled the smoke from his cigarette, held between two gloved fingers. "Tombstone, right?" he said calmly in a regular speaking voice. He didn't need to yell, the entire bar was silent in anticipation anyway.

"Diablo, huh?" Tombstone sneered, considerably more loudly, as he stomped his way towards the table. "You don't look like all that much to me."

Dean stuck the cigarette between his lips as he looked his soon-to-be opponent up and down before answering, "You have no idea how often I get that. Here, you want to sit down? Drinks are on me." He nodded toward the seat across from him. "Barkeep, bring me some more of that stuff you gave me before. An extra glass for my guest, too."

Tombstone plunked down in it with all the grace of a rhinoceros and glared at Dean with such intensity it was almost comical.

"So you got some kind of business with me?" Tombstone grunted.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Dean said with the cigarette sticking out of his half-grin. He put one foot up on his thigh and rested his outstretched arms on the back of the booth. "Word has it that you used to pal around with Sid Carter and Thomas Greene?"

Tombstone stroked his goatee as he answered, "Yeah, I used to hang out with them back when we were just punks on the street. I lost contact with them a while back, but I heard that they're both dead now." He watched the young man carefully. "I also heard the crazy that offed them took three fingers from both of them."

Dean feigned surprise. "No kidding?" He tapped his cigarette on the ash tray. "You ever find out who did it?"

"Not for sure. Heard some stuff, though. Rumours."

"So what's your theory?" Dean was no longer looking at Tombstone, instead contemplating the smoking ashes in the tray. He could feel the conversation growing tenser, but the smirk remained on his face.

Tombstone was silent for a moment before he replied. "Well... the Diablo's got a bit of a reputation for slicing off his victim's fingers, don't he?"

Just then, the bartender arrived with half a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Glancing nervously at the two customers, he hurriedly set them down and scurried away before he could get caught in the middle of what was sure to be a fight.

"So," Dean said casually, pouring them each a glass of the booze, "you think I killed your friends?"

Tombstone reached out to take his glass. "Nah. I _know_ you did. And I have no idea why, but you're here today to kill me too." He took a sip of whiskey before continuing. "At first, I considered just shooting you the moment you introduced yourself." Tombstone grinned with arrogance that matched Dean's as he drawled, "But then I thought, what the hell—I haven't had a decent fight in a long time."

Dean drained his glass in one gulp, took one last drag from his cigarette, and wordlessly set them both down on the table. Dean then shifted slightly in his seat to pull something from his belt. Still not speaking, he placed his Glock carefully on the table and cocked an eyebrow at the other man.

The message was clear: let's fight here and now—no weapons.

Likewise, Tombstone placed two revolvers that had been tucked away in his pants on the table too. At this point, absolutely everybody had ceased to be discreet about spying on the two men. The pool games had halted, the chatter fell silent, and everyone watched with bated breath.

Tombstone made the first move. Without warning, he grabbed the collar of Dean's T-shirt from across the table and flung him out of the booth.

Instead of falling to the floor, Dean rolled over and was somehow on his feet again in one movement. Many customers were cheering them on now. A brawl in this part of town wasn't just okay: it was practically encouraged.

Tombstone swung one of his huge fists at his opponent's head. Despite the force behind it, Dean expertly knocked it away with his forearm. Before he could recover, Dean aimed a jab at his face to daze him and then forcefully brought Tombstone crashing down with a kick to his diaphragm.

Dean could hear a man yelling amidst the crowd: "Beat that son of a bitch Tombstone until his great grandkids beg you for mercy!"

Dean chuckled at the outburst, but didn't reply. Instead he slowly circled his opponent as he recovered, like a vulture. Tombstone's smile had mysteriously vanished, replaced by an expression akin to fury.

Without warning, he dove at Dean with a blade he had hidden in his belt. Dean rolled his eyes and ducked to the side. He took his own dagger out from inside his jacket and twirled it once around his gloved fingers.

The crowd got even more excited when the weapons came out. A few people were already placing bets on the outcome.

Tombstone charged for Dean again, but he was too predictable. Dean spun around, his black jacket whipping behind him, and by the time Tombstone realized what was happening, Dean was behind him and there was a bleeding gash in his left arm.

"Stay still, pretty boy," Tombstone growled menacingly. He turned around just in time to see Dean launching himself off a table and deliver a flying kick to his face. Their impromptu audience went wild as Tombstone fell to the floor a second time.

He felt his nose gingerly. The blood ran freely down his face and he knew he'd have to deal with a broken nose later—if there _was_ a later.

Meanwhile his opponent was simply walking slowly towards him with that _stupid_ smirk, looking down at him. Despite his elegance while fighting him, Tombstone noticed the Diablo's swagger was as unsteady as ever. His body swayed side to side as each step brought him closer to his fallen prey.

Tombstone picked himself up from the floor clumsily, raising a hand as he got up to indicate submission. All of a sudden, he lunged at the young man again. Dean arched backwards like an acrobat in the nick of time and straightened up again with a look of mock surprise.

"Wo-ow, impressive. That was a close one," he smirked. Then, just to infuriate his opponent even more, he gave him a quick wink.

It worked. Full of rage, Tombstone aimed to stab him from the front, but Dean again ducked away with ease and quickly inserted and pulled out his blade from the back of Tombstone's calf.

The older man grunted in pain and stumbled on one foot. As he became more frustrated, it just became easier for Dean to follow a rhythm of dodging and slashing. He continuously twirled around Tombstone like a dancer, switching his grip on the knife when he either wanted to stab or slice. The spectators were in awe.

Tombstone stumbled around in a confused daze, always several steps behind his opponent. He swiped at the air uselessly every once in a while, but he never came close to hitting his ghostlike adversary.

Dean purposefully avoided the major arteries. At one point, he twirled in a circle nonstop around the larger man and it was difficult to see what was happening, but when he was finished the floor was covered in spatters of blood. All the twirling like a ballerina would have been funny in different circumstances, but there was nothing effeminate about it. He was simply being a graceful killer.

Finally, Dean slowed up and stood still. He didn't seem dizzy from all the spinning, but he still swayed back and forth like a common drunk. It was difficult to connect this man to the finesse and ease with which he fought.

Tombstone was a mess. He lay on the floor face down and attempted to drag himself out by his hands while the crowd jeered at him. Dean began to laugh wildly but Tombstone continued to crawl pitifully towards the direction of the door, trailing blood behind him like a deformed snail. Despite a few kicks from the spectators he kept going.

"Hey, where are you going?" Dean laughed again and grinned to all the people watching. "I thought you were going to avenge your old buddies! Where are you going, old man?"

Still grinning from ear to ear, Dean sank down to his knees, plunging the dagger into Tombstone's leg and pinning him to the ground. Tombstone let out a cry of anguish as Dean let out another chuckle.

Dean held down Tombstone's struggling body and leaned over so their heads were side by side.

"May 1st, 1994," Dean hissed into his ear.

"W-what?"

"On that day you and your two dead pals mugged a kid and stabbed him," Dean said softly, not loudly enough for anyone but the older man to hear him. "The doctors told him he'd never be able to walk again."

"I'm—I'm sorry. I really am..."

"No you're not," Dean cut him off pleasantly. "Did you know that kid's birthday was the next day? 'Happy Birthday, boy, you're gonna be a cripple your whole life! At least you get some cake!'"

"Please... Let me go..."

"You're pathetic," Dean growled, his smile suddenly gone. "The kid was turning eleven the next day." Dean grabbed a hold of Tombstone's arm. "Stay still, damn it."

Tombstone still struggled, so with a loud 'crack' Dean snapped his left arm and held it down. Tombstone was howling in pain.

"Anyways," Dean continued casually. "I'm here to collect my debt." Since his dagger was imbedded in Tombstone's leg, he took out a small pocket knife with a rather blunt blade.

"Were you... that kid?" Tombstone managed to gasp out.

"Do I _look_ like a cripple, old man?" Dean sneered.

"Then who...?"

"Nobody messes with Sammy." With that, Dean began sawing away at Tombstone's fingers. It was difficult with the tiny blade. Better than the rock Dean had had to use previously, of course, but still. Dean stopped to stare at it in disgust. "Hey, anybody got something sharper?" he asked, turning to the crowd.

Someone tossed a butcher knife on the floor next to him.

"No! No!" Tombstone screamed.

"I don't even want to know why someone was carrying that around," Dean muttered, picking up the knife. Tombstone seemed to be doing an odd combination of swearing and praying to heaven. With a swift chop, three of Tombstone's fingers were separated from the rest of the hand. The crowd went wild.

Dean got up to his feet and wiped his bloody hands on his black jacket. He pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. Without even asking, someone tossed him a lighter. After taking a long, calming drag, he considered the cursing bloodied man on the floor.

"He's all yours, folks," he finally said out loud to the whole bar. "Sorry I can't stay. I've got a date."

He pushed open the doors and left without watching to see what the customers at the bar would do with his victim.

At that point, he would have liked to have called it a day and go back to his hotel room to check if that girl—whose name he couldn't quite recall at the moment—was still there and up for some fun.

Unfortunately, even if she was, Dean had some business to take care of. His life these days practically revolved around repaying favours, owing favours, and doing favours for people. Tonight he had to repay someone, and what a pain in the ass it was too.

His old cellmate from a few years back had an ex-girlfriend who had apparently changed the password for his safe and he couldn't crack it. It was stupid, but Dean had had to actually _date_ this girl for a week to get close to her. At first he'd thought it would be fun, but Lizzie was just a spoiled brat.

As soon as he found out that stupid freaking password, he was skipping town and never looking back. Hell, if she didn't give him the password by the end of tonight's date, he was going to force her to tell him just so he could dump her already.

Dean was trying to wave down a cab when his cell rang. He checked the caller ID and cussed under his breath.

"Hey, Gorgeous," he answered brightly.

"Jo-ohn," Lizzie whined. Dean physically cringed. "Where are you? I just got here and you're not waiting for me!"

"I got caught up a bit at work, honey," Dean replied with forced sweetness in his voice. "I'm on my way to the restaurant now." He glanced at his watch. It was 4 o'clock. Jeez, if he'd actually been on time for the date, he'd have been waiting for a full hour for the bitch.

"Actually, why don't you come over to my parents' house? I'm staying with them for the weekend and they're out right now."

That _voice_! Dean had an urge to throttle the man standing next to him, also waiting for a cab, just because he was the closest throttle-able thing in the vicinity. Throttle. That was a good word. He was going to use it in a conversation soon.

"Sure thing, baby. It'll take a couple hours by cab to get there."

"Not if you put your mind to it! Just don't get distracted on your way over here," Lizzie said. Dean imagined she was pouting. "See you!"

Dean couldn't stand taking orders or being submissive. He was used to people being afraid of him, damn it! What the hell did his ex-cellmate have in that safe that could be so important that Dean had to suffer like this?

"Yeah, see ya."

Dean knew where Lizzie's parents lived. It was a huge house in the suburbs. The area he was in at the moment was practically as ghetto as you could get in the whole state. But take a cab a hundred miles in any direction and you could literally see the gradual transition to respectable neighbourhoods. Go another fifty miles and you would reach the huge houses with the freshly mowed lawns.

Two totally different worlds within a hundred fifty mile radius. Dean liked that he could go freely between them.

When he arrived at Lizzie's parents' address, the sun had already started to set. He saw his 'girlfriend's' Ferrari parked in the driveway and knew she was waiting to bitch at him from behind that door.

The house was magnificent. Dean bet he could sell the front door itself and it would buy him three meals a day for a whole month. He fully expected peacocks to emerge from the neatly-trimmed bushes. Who hired guys to trim bushes, anyway, like what was the whole point of nice bushes? Surely that money could have been better spent helping a homeless kid downtown to buy a decent meal, right? What was the world coming to when there were people dying instead of bushes?

Anyway, the house was huge, and Dean didn't know what only two people did with all that extra space. They probably just hired people to fill it up.

Dean rang the doorbell with an odd sense of déjà vu, like he'd been there before. Lizzie opened the door with an annoyed look on her face.

"Jess is upstairs sleeping! I hope you didn't wake her up," she hissed.

Dean very much wanted to tell her sarcastically that next time he would telepathically notify her he was at the door, but instead he said, "Sorry, babe. And who's Jess? I thought we had the house to ourselves."

"Jess is my older brother's girlfriend," Lizzie replied. "They're visiting this weekend too. I _thought_ she went out with Sam, but apparently not." She said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world and Dean should have known this beforehand. She suddenly grinned mischievously. "But she's a heavy sleeper. Even if we, er, make a bit of noise I doubt she'll wake."

Dean grinned back at her. He knew what she was asking for. He leaned down, starting to close his eyes—was he imagining that smell?

Dean paused and straightened up, sniffing the air. It wasn't Lizzie, and it wasn't him. It kind of smelled like rotten eggs. Or...

Lizzie was demanding to know what was wrong with him, but he ignored her. He concentrated on the ceiling above him, where he could hear footsteps. Footsteps that were too heavy to belong to a girl— any average-sized girl anyway.

"Is there anybody in the house besides you and Jess?" Dean demanded, grabbing Lizzie's shoulders. Stunned, she could only shake her head. The light bulbs from the chandelier above them flickered.

"Shit!" Dean said. Without an explanation, he bolted past Lizzie and up the marble staircase. The smell got stronger as he climbed the stairs. He recognized the scent now. It was the smell of sulfur.

There was a demon in the house.

When he reached the top of the staircase, Dean stopped running and instead tiptoed. He didn't have any weapons on him that would do anything to a demon, but he wasn't completely unprepared. Dean shrugged off his jacket and left it on the floor.

His t-shirt revealed two arms almost completely covered in tattoos. Somewhere on his right bicep was the inking of a Latin paragraph. To an outsider, it would look like gibberish, but Dean had actually gotten the artist to print the words of the exorcism ritual on him.

The other tattoos were like that too. The word 'wendigo' on fire, a picture of a flaming spectre with a salt shaker above it, and a decapitated vampire head—body not included—were among the dozens of designs on his body that acted as his supernatural survival guide. It was his version of John Winchester's journal.

There was a sudden high-pitched shriek down the hallway. Abandoning his attempt of being stealthy, Dean ran towards the scream. He was pretty sure Lizzie was still at the bottom of the stairs, terrified that Dean was doing something horrible to her brother's girlfriend.

The screaming had been from the bedroom at the end of the hallway and without hesitation Dean threw open the door.

The first thing Dean noticed was that there were two people already in the room. The second thing he noticed was that 'Jess' was that girl he'd seen on the bus earlier that day.

The third thing Dean noticed was that Jess was pinned to the wall by an unseen force, had a look of pure terror and pain on her face, and the demon was in the middle of slicing her open with psychic powers.

He stopped for a moment in the doorway. The demon whipped around to face him with glimmering black eyes.

"Well. This is a bit awkward," the demon smiled. He was possessing a young man with brown hair. Though the room was dark and the demon was around the same age as Jess's boyfriend on the bus, Dean could tell instantly it was a totally different person. He raised a hand and Dean was slammed into the opposite wall. The demon left Jess sobbing on the wall at the other end of the room as he approached Dean.

Dean grunted in pain. From behind the demon he could see Jess in a white nightgown with that bleeding gash across her stomach and suddenly he recognized this all too well. "Are you the bastard that killed my mom?" he managed to growl. "Because if you are, so help me, I'm gonna tear you apart from the inside out!"

The demon stared at Dean thoughtfully. "Strange... You're not one of the special ones," he frowned, puzzled. "I guess you have a sibling? And by the way, this is totally not my thing." He gestured to Jess. "I can think of much better ways to spend my evening. But what can you do when the boss is busy, right?"

"Who do you work for?" Dean demanded, struggling against his invisible bonds. "Tell me!"

The demon ignored his questions as something seemed to dawn on him. "Oh my gosh, don't tell me you're... Is that you, Dean Winchester? You don't know me, but we've met. One of my buddies possessed you for a couple years a while back, remember him?"

"Yeah, we had some wild times together," Dean bit back sarcastically.

"This is quite a turn of events. My god, you've changed quite a bit, haven't you? All that darkness and anger inside you—it's quite refreshing, actually. Is that human blood I smell on your clothes?"

"Go to hell," Dean snarled.

"Been there, done that," the demon laughed.

Their conversation was interrupted by Lizzie downstairs. "John! John, what's going on? If you don't come down here right now I'm calling the cops!"

"Call an ambulance, Lizzie!" Dean shouted back. "Now! Jess is bleeding!"

"Hold on a second," the demon said, grinning widely. "You're here because of that girl downstairs? Not because you found out I was after your brother's girlfriend? If that's not fate, I don't know what it is."

"What are you talking-" Dean froze and stared at the blonde girl across the room in realization. Her boyfriend on the bus had been curious about his amulet, hadn't he?

The pieces started to fall into place. The reason this house was so familiar was because Dean had snuck in here countless times for the first year of Sam's adoption. He also recalled now that Sam had had a little sister named Elizabeth—Lizzie's real name.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean wondered if Sam had turned out to be as much of a bitch as she was.

"This is unbelievable," the demon continued. "I mean, I can tell from that stupid dumbstruck look on your face that you didn't even know you were in your brother's bedroom until two seconds ago. You Winchesters are pretty amazing."

"You stay the hell away from my brother," Dean warned him.

"Or what?"

Dean smirked before turning his head to the side so he could read the text permanently inked in on his right arm. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus," he began. He could vaguely hear the sound of someone—probably a man—barrelling down the hallway towards them and he prayed it wasn't his baby brother.

"You know what I was going to do with Sam's girlfriend here?" the demon taunted. "I was about to put her nice and high on the ceiling and then set her on fire. Burn her, like my boss did to your mommy. She died painfully and slowly and even now, she's still burning in hell..."

Dean refused to let the demon's words bother him and continued, "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio..."

The door opened a second time and Sam Winchester stared at the scene before him, frozen. His bangs were greasy and matted against his forehead, his face was shiny with sweat, and he was panting, like he'd run a long distance. Dean couldn't help but stop his chanting to look at his younger brother, taking in every detail of his sweat-soaked face. The kid had changed so much. Sam paid him no attention. His eyes were glued on his half-alive girlfriend and the demon.

"Jess! Oh my god, Jess!" Sam was in a panic. He saw her attacker. "B-Brady?"

What the hell? Sammy knew this guy?

The demon wearing Brady's body groaned and looked skyward. "This was _not_ supposed to happen, damn it. The boss won't be happy that I'm leaving before the job's done, but..."

Understanding flashed in Sam's eyes as Brady's eyes turned pitch black.

"Yeah, you run, you son of a bitch," Dean growled, his voice low and dangerous. He hadn't felt emotions this strong in years. All his carefully built composure was gone. Sam whipped around to look at him, noticing him for the first time. "But you'd better tell your boss I'm coming after him. _I am going to kill the both of you._ You destroyed my _family_ and my _life_. I've got nothing to lose!" His voice was so full of hate and poison that he could tell even Sam was getting nervous.

Dean was happy to see a flash of fear in the demon's eyes. "That would be a neat trick," Brady sneered. "Don't worry, he'll probably find you first. He's not very pleased with you. The only reason you're still alive is because he thinks that crossroads deal you made was amusing. Good luck with keeping up your end of that, by the way."

Brady threw a pointed look towards Sam before opening his mouth wide towards the ceiling. Black smoke came billowing out of Brady like a chimney and flew out the open window.

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><p><strong>Man that fight sequence took on a life of its own! I swear, it was only supposed to be one page and ended up taking almost five -_-<strong>

**Review to let me know what you think and where you want the story to go! Hell, review to make me feel better about myself :) It'll be your good deed of the day, you don't even have to leave your computer!**

**...But if you see someone homeless and you don't give them change cuz you reviewed my story and you've done your good deed... Uh, well just give him the money too**. **Because you're nice like that.  
><strong>

**Wow ok just ignore everything I ever say.**


	4. The Introductions

**So I'm not dead. Unless you decide to murder me for never updating.**

**I just... I hate this story. Why are you guys making me feel so guilty about not writing more.**

**Kidding. I actually love y'all for the support and faith that I would one day update this story. I felt like crap for letting you guys down so here is the fourth chapter!**

**(See? Goes to show that reviewing DOES work.)**

**Oh. And since it's been so long, you've definitely forgotten what happened last time. Sam walks in on his girlfriend getting her stomach slashed open by a demon in Brady's body, and some dude he met on the bus (Dean) is pinned to his wall. Dean can't tell Sam who he is or else his brother's gonna have to start wheelchairing around everywhere. The demon gets away.**

**Actually, I recommend just rereading the last chapter, possibly all of them since it's just been a reeeaally long time.**

**Sorry.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: The Introductions<strong>

_**"It's just, I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. 'Cause... just 'cause." **_

_**–Sam to Dean, 'Fresh Blood'**_

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><p>The week following the demon's attack passed at a torturously slow pace for Sam, although it was far from uneventful. It felt like the police had questioned him at least several hundred times as to what had happened. Like how saying a word over and over eventually makes it lose its meaning, every time Sam retold his account, the less it seemed to make sense.<p>

For obvious reasons, he'd had to leave out several parts of the truth. Sam was pretty sure that the whole thing with Brady being possessed by a demon with psychic abilities wouldn't go over too well with the cops. This left numerous holes in Sam's story and the poor police officers involved were all lost and suspicious and just utterly confused. They asked him countless times about Lizzie's mysterious boyfriend, as if Sam was deliberately withholding information from them and if they annoyed him long enough he would give in. They figured that the boyfriend was the key to the whole case, and once they had more information on him, everything would click together.

Sam genuinely had no idea what had happened to Lizzie's boyfriend, who had somehow disappeared during the chaos of the paramedics and police barging into the house. He also was dying to know more about the stranger. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that it had been a mere coincidence that the man who had saved Jess was also wearing Dean's necklace.

Sam had long since convinced himself that his big brother was most likely dead, but as of recently he wasn't so sure. He wished that he could describe to the police what had really happened: that the stranger was not the attacker, he was their hero. However, the coroner had examined Brady's corpse and determined that he had died months ago, eliminating Brady as the assailant. This left only the mysterious young man as the culprit.

The coroner was also quite puzzled as to how Brady's corpse was so perfectly preserved without any signs of chemicals or refrigeration, while the police were questioning how it had ended up in the guest bedroom at all. The stranger certainly hadn't carried it in with him on his date.

Lizzie had told the police everything she knew about her boyfriend, but it turned out that just about everything she'd been told had been a lie. She also didn't have any pictures of him, and the police had nothing to go on besides a semi-accurate description of his face.

Besides the police investigation, Sam had to deal with dozens of friends and family trying to comfort him and talk to him about what had happened. His mother was the worst. Sam's father was bad enough, but at least he occasionally took breaks from hovering over him. Meanwhile, it seemed like his mom never dared to leave Sam by himself for even a second anymore, save for when he had to go to the bathroom. Every moment of the day, she was there to rub his back, to ask him how he was doing, to tell him that it was alright to open up.

It had taken a full week for Sam to find a way to wriggle out of his mom's clutches and get a drink. Besides a glass of wine on special occasions, his parents practically never drank and there was absolutely no alcohol in the house. All Sam had really wanted for days was for everybody to just leave him the hell alone and let him get plastered.

Sam chugged down the rest of his beer as he sat alone in a booth at a real dump of a bar. He felt a sharp pang when he thought of the Halloween party he'd gone to with Jess the day before she'd been attacked. She had drunk circles around him and still it was Sam with the pitiful hangover the next day.

Lost in his thoughts of Jess, at first Sam didn't notice the man seating himself down at his table.

"My god, I admire you. How is this only your first visit to the bar since all this crazy crap started happening to you?" chuckled the man. Sam jumped in his seat and looked up. After only two encounters, his voice was already familiar to him.

"Hey, Sammy. How's life been treating you?"

The first thing Sam saw was the necklace cord. Hanging from it was the pendant that looked exactly like the one he had given Dean 14 years earlier. Sam's eyes rose ever so slightly to take in his face. Lizzie's boyfriend (although by now, for reputation's sake, Lizzie had probably erased all evidence that she had ever been in a relationship with a supposed criminal) was really good-looking, and Sam could admit this with complete confidence in his sexual preference because it was simply a fact.

The man's eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the edges when he smiled, but not in a way that made him look old. Though sprinkled with several faint scars, his face would otherwise not look out of place on a movie poster. His inky black hair stood in stark contrast with gleaming white teeth, which were themselves perfectly straight, though they were framed by a crooked grin.

Sam's memory of his brother's face had faded over the years, but he was positive his brother had been blonde. The nose, too, was all wrong. The stranger's facial expressions and body language certainly weren't ringing any bells, and Sam's hopes that he had found his long-lost brother were dimmed. He thought the stranger's eyes reminded him of Dean, but after so long it was hard to be sure, especially in the dimly lit bar.

The man never seemed to stop moving, which was something Sam had noticed when they'd met on the bus too. His fingers were always tapping on something, or else fiddling with some kind of object. His head, too, kept tilting from right to left like it couldn't stand staying in one place.

"Let's get one thing straight," Sam began, pointing an accusing finger at the man across from him. Noticing that his hand wasn't quite steady, he vaguely wondered if he was already getting a little drunk. "_Nobody_ calls me Sammy. Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam, okay?"

The man smiled widely at him. "Whatever you say, kiddo," he laughed and started pulling out a box of cigarettes from inside his leather jacket. "Hey, think they'll let me smoke in here?"

"Don't you dare," Sam warned him immediately. "I've got enough to deal with besides worrying about lung cancer." He ignored the man's snort and continued, "So I gave you my name. What's yours?"

The man was still smiling, but his eyes looked skywards, as if he had to think hard about Sam's question. "You can call me Diablo," he told him finally. At Sam's expression he added, "Weird name, I know. But hey, no one really gets to choose what to be called, do they?"

"Jeez," Sam frowned. "You must have been terrible to your mother as a fetus, if she named you after the devil. Please tell me that's just a nickname."

"Please, my mother liked me just fine," Diablo told him. His smile still held, but Sam noticed the twinkling in his eyes had vanished. "You know what's starting to concern me, though? The fact that a demon breaks into your parents' house and psychically slices open your girlfriend, yet here you are asking me if my mommy loved me. I mean, priorities, dude."

Sam was hardly listening. Instead, his eyes were squinted as he once more searched Diablo's face for any sign of his brother. The way he had changed topics so quickly and fluidly reminded Sam of Dean, whenever Sam had asked about their mother.

Sam wanted to ask Diablo the big question, if he was really his older brother. But he was just too terrified of the answer to say it out loud.

Cursing his own cowardice, Sam instead asked, "So do you know why that thing decided to attack Jess?"

"Do you know what that thing _was_, first of all?"

Diablo's head tilted from right to left every four or five seconds, Sam noticed, and just watching him made his own neck ache. Maybe Diablo had Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder? Perhaps he was just excited, or even nervous. It could also have been something that he did subconsciously, like some animals, to appear more dangerous. Sam found himself analyzing the details of the man in front of him. He was... fascinating, to say the least. Sam had never taken this much interest in a stranger before.

"It was – it was a demon, right?" Sam answered. "I know about monsters and stuff. But I couldn't find a way to kill demons."

Diablo didn't look surprised that Sam knew about the existence of demons.

"Well, that's probably the answer to your question right there," Diablo said. Sam just looked confused, so he continued, "What I mean is, the son of a bitch probably attacked your chick because it was after you. People who know about monsters tend to be a magnet for them. If I were you, I'd either stay real close to my family, or stay real far."

Sam realized something then, and could have slapped himself for not realizing it sooner.

"You're a hunter."

"Yeah, kinda," Diablo shrugged. "Not the usual breed, though." His eyes flickered from Sam to the barkeep, standing at the opposite end of the bar. "Oh hey, I know this guy. Yo, Charlie! Can we get a couple more cold ones here?"

The barkeeper was older by maybe a decade. He literally had the face of a fighter. That is, he didn't have a visible square inch of skin that wasn't unblemished by some kind of scar. Each stood out blaringly on his tanned skin, like a hundred tiny rivers carved deep into his face. When the other customers asked for drinks, he would comply, but only with a frightening scowl that made them keep a safe distance from him.

Yet Charlie looked positively terrified of the man Sam was with. In Sam's eyes, Diablo looked tough, but the three or four scars on his face held no match against the dozens of manmade lines on Charlie's face.

Then again, maybe it was the fact that Diablo had fewer scars that made him more of a threat.

Charlie came over to their table slowly, as if trying to delay their encounter. Sam wondered what in the world had made him so terrified of the man in front of him.

"Here you go, Diablo," Charlie grunted, not looking the man in the eye. "Need anything else?"

"Nah, I've got to drive all day tomorrow," Diablo replied with a huge grin. "Wanna share a drink? I won't be back in town for a while."

Sam honestly thought Charlie was going to wet himself. The expression looked so out of place on him.

"I, uh, I've got a lot of customers. Busy time right now, sorry," Charlie said quickly. It was almost one o'clock a.m. on a Monday and there were only about half a dozen people total in the place including the three of them.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Diablo said. "God, go clean your counters, or whatever."

Charlie practically ran back to do just that. Diablo casually handed Sam his drink as if nothing had just happened.

"So, um, anyways," Sam said, trying to pretend that the last few seconds had not just happened. "Do you know what happened to the demon that possessed Brady?"

"Your friend, right?" Diablo shrugged one shoulder as he drained half his bottle in a single gulp. Sam watched him in amazement. "I don't got a clue. What I do know is that you and your little family and your girlfriend – if she's still alive, anyway – won't be safe until that demon's boss is dead."

Sam swallowed. "Jess is... Well, she's actually in a coma right now, but she's alive and stable. Thanks to you, the demon didn't get the chance to finish his job." His hands were shaking and he clenched his beer tighter to still them. "See, Jess and I were at my mom's birthday party just across the street. Jess was feeling sick so she went back to my house early. I was just dropping in to check on her, and then I open the door and Lizzie's jumping around wailing into the phone for the cops and I'm hearing men yelling in Jess's bedroom and the lights are flickering and I'm wondering if this is all really happening or if my alcohol tolerance just sucks _that _much."

This earned him a light chuckle from Diablo, whose laugh was a lot less sinister than his smile. It lasted for only a quick moment, but Sam could have sworn for one second that he could see the flicker of the ghost of his older brother flashing across Diablo's face.

Almost immediately afterwards he wondered if he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

"Point is," Sam continued, "I wouldn't have made it in time. You saved Jess's life. So, uh... I owe you. Like, a lot."

"Ha! Hunting things is just part of my business, kid. But don't worry your posh little head, I'll take care of the big bad demon for you. You don't owe me shit. It's that demon that's gonna pay."

"I'm coming with you," Sam said immediately. "I'm going to help you kill that demon." As soon as he said it, Sam had no idea where that statement had come from. He hadn't planned to bring it up at all, though he'd certainly been thinking about it for the past few days. Still, as soon as the words came out of his mouth, Sam knew that he meant it a hundred percent.

Diablo blinked, and for half a second he actually looked like he was caught off guard. He recovered quickly and snorted.

"Oh, okay, yeah, sure. While we're at it, why don't we go over to the local kindergarten and recruit some of them? The more the merrier, right?"

"Is that a no?"

"That's a 'what the actual hell do you think, dumbass?'"

"I think you're my brother," Sam blurted out.

For the first time during the course of their conversation, Diablo became completely still. He scanned Sam's face as if trying to tell whether or not he was being serious.

"Interesting. Explain," Diablo said with an even voice. His face revealed nothing.

Sam wasn't quite sure how to start. He was suddenly feeling quite nervous. "Well, see, my older brother and I were separated when we were kids. And we both knew about monsters and demons and the like. And you've got his, uh, his necklace. And he would've been about your age." Sam's mouth was dry. He waited for a response, any kind of response, from the other man. He cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish now. "Uh, yeah, that's it."

Diablo didn't say a word for a while, just frowned at the table as his right hand fiddled with the fingers on his left hand.

And then, so quietly that Sam couldn't even hear him properly, Diablo murmured something indistinguishable. Sam thought he might have been cussing to himself.

"Uh, sorry? I didn't quite catch –"

"I'm not your brother. Sorry for the disappointment." Diablo took another long sip from his bottle. "Bought the amulet off a Russian merchant, it's supposed to keep away ghouls, or something. I've never had a little brother, or any other kind of family. If I ever had parents, they certainly wouldn't have been the type to live in a mansion. Also, that would mean that I dated my own sister. And quite frankly, incest is totally not my thing."

Diablo didn't blink once. Sam felt like there was something he was missing; something unspoken that Diablo was soundlessly shouting at him with those eyes, practically begging for him to understand. But whatever it was, it wasn't reaching Sam, and Diablo's gaze dropped back down to his beer just before the situation became uncomfortable.

Sam straightened up and squared his shoulders. "I still want to come with you," he said resolutely. "I have to protect my family."

Diablo's nostrils flared, the only physical indication of how pissed he was probably becoming. Although Sam was scared he was about get a left hook to the face, he still refused to back down.

Then Diablo grinned, and that was somehow scarier than getting beaten up.

"I think we need a third party's opinion on the matter," Diablo said. He jerked his head towards the bartender. "Charlie! Over here. Now."

Sam noticed how Charlie immediately froze in the middle of cleaning the counter. Charlie made his way towards them with the speed of someone making their way through quicksand.

"Hey, come on," Sam protested. "I get it, okay? People are scared of you. Charlie's busy right now, you don't have to call him over."

Diablo ignored him. Of course.

Charlie had stopped a few feet away from their table, just out of arm's reach. He had a strained smile on his scarred face. Diablo beckoned him closer with a flick of his index finger, and like magic, Charlie was instantly at his side.

"Alright, Sammy, I'm sure you've realized by now that this man has quite the impressive scar-to-face ratio." Diablo gestured to Charlie's general face area. If Charlie was insulted, he didn't react in the slightest. "Now, Charlie, we're gonna do a little show-and-tell for my friend here. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them honestly. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. How many scars do you have on your face there, Charlie?" Diablo flashed him an encouraging smile and Charlie shuddered.

"...71." To Charlie's credit, his voice was steady despite his obvious anxiety.

"That's right," Diablo confirmed. "I took special care to make sure none of the gashes touched each other or connected. Simpler for you to count afterwards. It's a task easier said than done, that's for sure. Especially with all the messy blood you had on your face."

Sam, not sure if the implication was serious or not, managed to look away from Charlie's face for the first time to study Diablo's. Again, Diablo blatantly ignored him.

Charlie looked like he had no clue whether or not he was meant to give Diablo an apology, but Diablo continued without asking for one.

"So, Charlie," Diablo said, voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Did it hurt much? When I did this to you, I mean."

Charlie didn't even hesitate this time.

"It did, Diablo."

As soon as he had said it, Charlie's eyes widened at his own impertinence and his mouth slammed shut. Diablo, however, looked pleased with the answer. He chuckled lightly, like Charlie had just told him a funny joke.

"Don't sweat it, man. Some of us are just pussies and there's nothing wrong with that –"

Sam cut him off. "Shut up."

Charlie cringed at Sam's bluntness and his eyes darted to Diablo, as if expecting him to carve up Sam right then and there. Diablo wasn't angry; in fact, he wasn't even slightly annoyed. His toothy grin only grew.

"Really sorry to bother you, Charlie," Sam said, glaring dead straight into Diablo's eyes. "Now if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak with Diablo privately, please."

Charlie looked at Diablo for confirmation.

"Yeah, you can go now, Charlie. Vas-y. Adios. Thanks for the help." Diablo waved him off like he was shooing a fly.

Charlie inclined his head jerkily before hastening back to his counter much more quickly than he had come. Sam stared wordlessly after him.

Diablo flashed Sam a grin that had suddenly become frigid. "Listen, kid. You got no clue what you're getting into. I'm not your long-lost big brother who cuddled you to sleep at night. I'm not some misunderstood anti-hero. You won't be travelling with Han Solo. I carved up that guy's face because he knocked my booze out of my hand and I was in a pissy mood. I will take down anyone and anything that gets in my way, including you. So my suggestion to you," Diablo's smile melted into a look of grim apathy before continuing, "is that you get the hell out of my face before you get yourself hurt. _Kid._"

With that, Diablo slapped two hundred dollar bills down on the table and stood up. He turned to leave, but Sam's hand shot out and latched onto his jacket. Sam stood too, and he realized for the first time that he was taller than Diablo.

"This demon put my girlfriend in a coma. It killed my biological mother," Sam said through gritted teeth, clenching the leather even tighter in his hands. "I get what you were trying to prove just now. You're not my brother, I get it. And I don't care." Diablo yanked himself out of Sam's grip as if flinching away, but met his gaze steadily. "I need to hunt this asshole down and you're my best chance of doing that. You don't care about me? That's just fine. I don't need another person keeping things from me or leaving me behind to protect me. I'm sick of waiting. I've been waiting my whole life for others to come back for me, and you know what? Someone finally did. He nearly murdered my girlfriend."

Diablo was a stone. "You really prepared to abandon your girlfriend, your mansion, your family? You're going to just throw that life away?" Sam couldn't get any kind of read on Diablo's empty expression.

Sam stuck his chin out. He wasn't going to let guilt stop him from doing the right thing. "I'm not throwing it away. I'm protecting it."

"And you're gonna do that with or without me, huh?"

"Pretty much. But I figure my chances are higher with you." Sam frowned. "You know, the fact that I think I'll survive longer by travelling with a psychopathic murderer is kind of frightening."

Diablo blinked, then rolled his eyes. "God, not only are you desperate, you're pathetic too."

Diablo looked Sam up and down, lingering on Sam's biceps and abdomen. And then, without warning, Diablo threw a punch towards Sam's head.

Sam had been taking self-defence classes all his life, not to mention archery and fencing. Knowing what kind of monsters lurked in the dark was great motivation for staying in peak fighting condition. Because of this, he was able to block Diablo's fist just before it connected with his face.

Their sudden movements had caught the attention of the bar's few customers, who all looked towards the bartender as if expecting him to do something about it. Charlie busied himself with stocking his drink straws.

"Good, you can fight," Diablo commented, relaxing his stance like nothing had just happened. "Okay. Fine."

"Fine? So..."

"Gas is pricey. If we're heading the same way, might as well carpool." Diablo raised an eyebrow at Sam's gaping mouth. "Though I may just take back that offer if you keep up the codfish impression. We're leaving," Diablo pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, then snapped it shut again, "in two hours, at 3 am sharp. I've got a dinner appointment tomorrow in South Dakota."

Sam finally managed to recover. "Okay. Wait, wait. South Dakota? That's like... halfway across the country."

"Which is why you need to get all your rich-boy stuff packed within two hours, kid."

"I'm ready to go right now," Sam said.

It was Diablo's turn to look surprised, though he didn't let the expression last long. "Seriously? You don't need anything? Not even going to make some half-assed excuse to your family? I don't want them to send the cops after us or nothing, you know. Not that it'd be anything new for me, but it can be a bit of a pain in the ass."

"No," Sam said. He suddenly seemed to be fascinated with the floor. "I'll call them from the road once we're in the next state. I love them, but there's no way they're going to let me leave if I stop by to say goodbye." Sam took a deep breath. "And this was a really spur-of-the-moment decision. I'm not sure if I'd even want to leave with you if I got to see them."

"I'm just saying, this is a dangerous job. You might not get to see them again. Them or your girlfriend."

"Well, it's just one more reason to not get killed then, isn't it?" Sam looked up again, now smiling a bit. "I have to be back by the time Jess wakes up. And I won't be dying anytime soon without a proper goodbye to my family."

Sam could almost see the exact moment when Diablo seemed to remember who he was. His posture suddenly slackened and his neck became restless once more, rolling from side to side. His smirk returned, but in turn something behind his eyes died.

"Alright then." Diablo's emotionless mask was impossible to read once more. "Come on, let's stop standing here like a couple of lost flagpoles. There're demonic bastards out there waiting to be killed."

Diablo sauntered away and out of the bar. Sam didn't follow right away and stared at Diablo's retreating back, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

He didn't stand there for long. A second passed before Sam sprinted out the bar after the man with cold eyes and a dead smile.

00000

_Nameless Road_

_Anderson, California_

_May 2__nd__, 1994_

"You know," the crossroads demon sighed, "I'm going to get fired for this, now that I think about it. And when it comes to Hell, being fired becomes quite a literal term. I mean, to most demons, I'm going to be their hero for doing this to you."

A few feet away, 15-year-old Dean Winchester let out yet another animalistic wail. He was long past trying to hide his pain from the demon. He'd run out of tears a few hours ago, and his tortured sobs sounded closer to retching. Two of his mutilated fingers lay near the demon's sleek black stilettos, drenched in now-browning blood.

The crossroads demon paid no attention to him and continued, "But although I'm going to be idolized by most of Hell, my boss – the King of Crossroads himself – has the unfortunate case of stick up his ass. He most likely won't be too happy that I didn't get your soul. So once you've finished up here, I'm thinking of quitting the business."

Dean didn't look up at her, instead taking careful aim at his middle finger, connected to the rest of his hand only by a ragged hinge of bloodied flesh. He raised the rock – now dyed a dark red – with his other hand, and though it trembled uncontrollably, he managed to hit his intended target.

Dean couldn't help it; he wailed once more. But he was so close. Dean struck that last dangling piece of skin another time, then another time, then once more with the stone, until he could finally pull his hand away and the last finger stayed there on the ground.

He was done. Dean had finally done it. He was free to leave. But God, his hand was just in so much agony and he found that he couldn't bring himself to stand. Every little movement he made multiplied his suffering a hundredfold. The sun was starting to rise and Dean could start to see his blood everywhere, all over his clothes, his hands, staining the ground. Little pieces of his flesh and his bone were scattered randomly around him and that didn't even make him feel sick anymore.

"Oh, good, you're finished," the demon said with a smile. "Honestly, Dean, I had a blast tonight, and I thank you for that. You're a natural-born entertainer, you are. But as I was saying, I'm resigning from the job as of now. From now on, it's just straight up stirring chaos and wreaking havoc on the lives of humans. Screw the deals and contracts, it's about time that I get to have some fun."

Dean didn't respond. He was preoccupied with wrapping up his hand with a shred of his shirt, but the cloth rubbing against his wounds was almost too much for him to handle. Dean had blacked out a few times already during the last few hours, and the demon had had to wake him up. He'd rather not have to put himself in such a vulnerable position again, and he fought the need for his body to shut down.

The demon approached him slowly, her red lips curled upwards and her hips swaying side to side. "My body is great, you know," she said to the boy at her feet. "It's super sexy, which is totally my style. But she's not very strong, nor is she very fast."

Dean finally looked up, and though his eyes were clouded with pain, he could catch the hungry look the demon was giving him. He instinctively curled away from her before flinching in pain from the movement.

"Does it hurt, Dean?" the demon said softly. "I can make it go away. Not just that kind of pain, either. If you join me, you won't have to worry about Sammy or Daddy anymore. No more stalking Sam from cold shadows, or running away from hunters, or watching your dad wither behind bars. You'll never feel pain again," the demon's voice gained a cold tone, "and in return you'll learn how to enjoy inflicting it on others."

Dean tried to scramble to his feet without using his hands, but all the jostling incited another pained howling noise that he just couldn't hold back.

"I'll take good care of your meatsuit, Dean, I promise," the demon cooed almost lovingly. "I want us to be together for a long, long time." She closed the distance between herself and the boy and grabbed both sides of his thin face with a single hand. "You're my trophy, Dean. Everyone knows the Winchesters are the best. And having beaten them, don't I deserve a prize?"

Her long, spider-like fingers pinched his cheeks even harder just as Dean spotted his abandoned anti-possession charm, still lying on the dirt out of arm's reach. Crap, he'd forgotten to put it back on after making the deal.

Dean made one more last-ditch attempt to wrench himself from the demon's grasp. With a forceful yank of his head, Dean managed to rip free from her clutches and he immediately dove for the glint of silver that would protect him from being possessed.

The demon thrust her foot, pointy-toed shoe and all, right into Dean's gut. Dean didn't even have enough energy to let out an actual grunt from the sharp blow, though his right hand instinctively fell to his injured stomach. Still, he somehow managed to not slow down in his pursuit and continued reaching for the charm with his other hand.

His speed caught the demon by surprise, who had expected him to be curled up on the ground, crippled in pain. Because of this, Dean actually managed to reach the charm with his left hand. He was so close to closing his fingers around it and being home-free –

Fingers. Shit.

The second he tried to fold nonexistent fingers around the small silver coin, his three mangled, bloody stubs twitched in an effort to move and another burst of pain shot through his entire hand, so intense that this time Dean had to draw back and curl in on himself.

The crossroads demon didn't look upset in the slightest. If anything, she looked even more gleeful.

"Oh, yes," she said, leaning over the shuddering ball of a boy. "Dean, you are just perfect. I get the feeling that you and I are going to have a great future together."

"No," Dean whimpered. "No, no, no, no..."

Black smoke jammed itself down his throat and the crossroads demon's old vessel fell to the ground with a soft thump, either passed out or dead.

Dean's body stopped shaking at once. He straightened up, stood up for the first time in hours, and stretched himself out. Except Dean couldn't control any of this. He was aware of it all, able to feel every movement and breath he took, but the poisonous dark presence enshrouding him was the one in charge. He could feel it engulfing him, trying to suffocate his soul, and it was a struggle for Dean to even remain conscious.

"Well, would you look at that," his own voice spoke out loud, though each word was dragged out just a bit too long for it to sound exactly like him. "You're still awake in there, are you, Dean? My, you really are a fighter. Speaking of which, great body you've got here. A little malnourished from living on the streets, it feels like, but otherwise you seem to have kept it in tiptop condition. I mean, besides the recently damaged property."

The crossroads demon lifted the left hand, still wrapped clumsily in cloth, cold now from the wet blood soaking it.

It was the most frightening thing Dean had ever experienced, feeling his own mouth and tongue and arm move, but unable to do anything to control it. Dean gave it all his effort, he really did, but he couldn't so much as make his own toe twitch.

"Don't worry, darling, I'll let you keep watching," the demon assured Dean in his own voice. "We'll be able to enjoy my retirement together. And trust me, kid, you haven't lived until you've dismembered a child in front of their mother. In fact, that's a lovely idea, I think that's the first thing we're going to do together." The demon clapped Dean's hands together. There was no pain from his mutilated hand anymore, though Dean obviously felt no gratitude towards the demon for this. "Well, let's not dawdle around here all day. There're mortal bastards out there waiting to be killed."

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><p><strong>Long author's comment:<strong>

**So, yeah, questions remain unanswered, bit more of Dean/Diablo's past is revealed, and the chapter that you waited two years for was basically just TWO FREAKING CONVERSATIONS.**

**I'm sorry, I honestly tried writing several different versions of this chapter, and this version (the sixth one, if you were wondering) was the least awful. Also, I'm really bad at remembering to write things. It's a little scary, because just yesterday I discovered a Supernatural/Harry Potter crossover that I started like a year ago, apparently. It was just sitting in my computer and it was 48 pages long! And I have almost no recollection of any of it! My point is, I can't remember writing things and I forgot that "Corruption & Innocence" existed for about a year. My bad?**

**But then I get awesome reviews reminding me that I once uploaded a fanfic to this account so thanks for that!**

**When will the next chapter come? Not too sure, to be honest. For those of you who are new, this fic was last updated August 31st, 2011. Today is November 22, 2013. I have never completed a fanfic on my other accounts. I have severe commitment issues. Hopefully it won't take another two years for an update. It probably won't. But I'm very unpredictable with this kind of thing. Sometimes it'll be done in a few days. Sometimes...  
><strong>

**well**

**you know.**

**But I promise, if I continue, there will definitely be more action. Not just talking and talking and threatening and blah blah blah.**

**Anywho, if you're still reading this fic, leave a review so I know if there's anyone to continue this story for. Anonymous reviews will always be accepted, so even if you have no account let me know if you'd like to see another chapter please :)**


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